DIARY OF A FRENCH HOUSEWIFE

Dicing With Death

2008-11-14T04:25:00.000-08:00

The white plate contains the mushrooms - now we contain them!

The Chef looking slightly unsure of her job

Jean shaving - presumably in case we had to look tidy at the A and E Department

A friend called in this morning a dropped off a bag of wild mushrooms.

"I had some for supper last night - delicious" he reported, and we both looked at him closely for any signs of food poisoning.

"The best thing is to cook that one a bit longer and cook it with other sorts and then it won't give you any problems".

"What sort of problems?" I enquired nervously, but he had moved onto other subjects, like the fact that the regular mushroom spots weren't particularly fruitful this year, nor had they been last year.

Assuming that if he hunted mushrooms and survived the harvest each year, we should be OK, so following instructions (and checking on the status of Jean's insurance policy), I proceeded to cook them in salted butter along with barbequed pork chops and some fresh tomatoes dipped in olive oil and dusted with Herb de Provence.

I have to confess that the results were delicious, and here we are an hour later, still alive to tell the tale. However, I did take a photo of each of us plus the aforementioned mushrooms, just in case anyone needed to do a post-mortem, and wanted to know what they looked like - the mushrooms, not us!

The Castries Aquaduct

2008-11-13T12:22:00.000-08:00

The view from above Castries towards Pic St Loup

The aqueduct winds through the countryside for some considerable distance

My tour guide and translator

The Castries Aqueduct on the edge of town

In nearby Castries, we have often driven under the arches that span the road going through town which carried the old aqueduct, but we have never thought too much about where it goes to and where it comes from. With a chilly north wind blowing earlier today, we decided to make the most of a lull this afternoon and enjoy a walk in the sunshine, and something on our list of things to explore has been an exposed area of what we thought was part of the aqueduct that ended in the arches in Castries.

The first thing we did was to go and read the information board situated under one of the arches on the edge of town and discovered that the aqueduct once carried water from far away St Mathieu de Treviers. According to the board, some fellow who owned the land where the original spring of water came from, sold the rights to the water in exchange for a pair of gloves!

There were once over 100 arches, some of which were 20 metres high which carried the water to the huge Chateau in Castries which is currently undergoing refurbishment In other areas - like the one we found, the water flowed through the stone furrow at ground level, an amazing piece of engineering considering that it was built in the 1700's. For the entire length of it's journey, the water only had a slope of 3 metres overall, and the fact that it ran through such pretty countryside was a real bonus for us.

It's an Ill Wind

2008-11-13T04:40:00.001-08:00

The vineyard after it's haircut

The leaf fall - to sweep or not to sweep, that is the question!

The temperature at night is falling and in order to conserve the heat in the house, Jean nips round each evening and closes the exterior wooden shutters. This works like a charm except that the following morning, we are still curled up fast asleep in the pitch dark, unaware that it is already 8.30am and most of the civilised world is up and doing. We were rewarded this morning when we finally did open the shutters, to find that the sky was a clear blue, and although we were paying for it with a brisk north wind, the wretched rain which has hung around for weeks seemed to have pushed off elsewhere.

“A great day to prune the grapevines” I announced, and Jean leapt straight onto the internet to ensure that we wouldn’t kill them off from lack of knowledge.

“Leave two shoots cut at the second bud and cut away everything else” said the site which tells you how to prune every tree known to man, so we pulled on our jackets and boots and headed out into the vineyard, each clutching a pair of secateurs. Once we had gained our confidence on the first vine, the other three didn’t take us much time at all, and the job was done. From this you will understand that our vineyard isn’t exactly extensive, but as we drive through the local vineyards and see the thousands upon thousands of vines which have to be pruned by hand, we are rather glad that we don’t have a similar problem.

The north wind is doing another job for us and is bringing the leaves down off the micocoulier tree at a great rate. I have looked up the alternative name for this tree but can only come up with “Lotus Tree”. Suffice it to say, it has thousands of yellow leaves that are swirling in great drifts around the courtyard, and a proposed trip to the supermarket was quickly cancelled when we went out and realised how cold the wind was. I can hear my Florida friends laughing as they lie next to the pool!

November Updates - four months in France

2008-11-12T06:10:00.000-08:00

The last outing for the bulls and the horses - right outside our house!

Saturday afternoon I went to visit a friend who has recently bought a massive old house in one of the nearby hill villages. Having climbed up through the four floors of draughty hallways, stone staircases, freezing attics and crumbling plaster, I didn’t know whether to congratulate her or commiserate with her. I just hope that she can find that illusive creature known as a “French Builder” who will take on the project without bankrupting her completely. I have to confess that I returned home to our snug single storey easily heated house with great relief and appreciation.
While up in that neck of the woods, we took the opportunity of enjoying a musical evening where wine was included in the entrance fee, and children and dogs entertained themselves by ducking and diving in among the dancers and under the tables, while adults talked and laughed, drank and danced and generally had a good time. It was simple, it was cheap but it was excellent value and the music was really good, and driving back home through vineyards bathed in the light of a full moon, rounded out a thoroughly pleasant day. I have to confess that the day had been further improved by my clever husband who won a huge smoked ham in a lottery. It is the size of a four month old baby and will feed us up to, and including Christmas.

Our trip to the Equisud Horse Show:

From the sublime

Passing by the "Flemish Mare"

To the slightly ridiculous

In the past month, we have gone from basking in summer sun and eating al fresco three times a day, and now we seem to spend far more time inside, appreciating our electric fan heater and the fact that we can close the shutters at night and conserve valuable warmth. I daresay we are in for far colder temperatures in the next few months, but having spent five years in Florida, we are totally unused to the new system of extra layers, sheepskin slippers and another blanket on the bed.

The colder weather seems to bring on a flurry of alternative amusements and every little town that we drive through appears to have a circus passing through. Circuses hold no interest for me whatsoever, and I have never enjoyed watching animals being made to perform. I don’t care how many people dangle off high wires or risk life and limb in the Big Top; the last place I would run away to would be the circus.

What we did enjoy earlier this week was a visit to the Equisud Horse Show in Montpellier, and I fell utterly and totally in love with a palomino stallion who has to be the equine equivalent of Brad Pitt. Only in France would the main arena be surrounded by restaurants so that diners can enjoy a good meal and a fine wine while being entertained with a variety of dressage displays. From massive draught horses to miniature horses, there was something for everyone, and instead of the rather “hoity toity” feel of a British Horse Show, there were “Guardians” from the Camargue showing off their skills, children and adult equestrians from all walks of life, and an enthusiastic audience who in most part appeared to be made up of family members.

The beach at Grand Motte certainly doesn't look like this in summer!

Perfect weather at Port Camargue:

It’s been raining on and off for what seems like weeks, and apart from a quick trip down to the coast to Port Camargue where we struck the most fabulously perfect day, the weather has been decidedly contrary.

The 11th Hour of the 11th Day

2008-11-11T04:36:00.000-08:00

The village was definitely going to be rained on this morning but it seemed to make no difference to the crowd who gathered outside the Marie just before 11am. Officials wearing red,white and blue sashes mingled with housewives, children and old soldiers. A little girl came up to me and admired my poppy and then pressed a blue sticker onto my chest which said in French, words to the effect that "Memory is transmissible but hope is given". An elderly relative told her that I was from the United Kingdom which was why I was wearing a poppy, and I felt several curious but kindly eyes on me.

If it had been England, we would have set off for the war memorial just down the road by about 10.45 in order to be in place for the two minute silence at 11am, but this is France, and by the time everyone had kissed everyone else, it was nearly 11.10am, but suddenly with a flurry of flowers and umbrellas, the crowd formed themselves into an orderly line, and we set off down the narrow village street.

The worst of the rain eased off and we stood bare headed at the War Memorial while the Mayor read out the names of soldiers from the village who had lost their lives in various wars, starting first with those lost during the 1914-18 conflict. For what must have been a tiny village in those days, the loss of over ten young men must have been catastrophic, but only one local man had lost his life during the 1939-45 war. It was a poignant moment when the Mayor read out the name of his own close relative who had lost his life in Vietnam, and as the flags dipped, the sound of the Last Post echoed around the Place in front of the ancient church.

A young boy stepped forward and spoke about how the children were still very aware of the sacrifices made, and it was the children who carried the wreath of flowers ahead of the procession. We stood shoulder to shoulder as "La Marseillaise" rang out and the Mayor thanked the British, Commonwealth and American forces who had come to their rescue, and then in true French fashion, everyone was invited back to the Marie for a pre lunch drink.

On my computer, I had watched the Service of Remembrance at the Cenotaph and seen the petals drifting down from the roof of the Albert Hall, and England and France seemed very close. My dear Dad who was in the RAF and my mother who nursed at the Royal Northern throughout the Blitz were very much in my mind, while Jean thought about his grandfather, General Fagalde who had commanded the French troops at Normandy.

Four years ago, I had stood on the after-deck of the QE2 out in the southern Atlantic Ocean and watched a similar ceremony take place, and today they are dropping one million petals onto her decks as she awaits the start of her final journey from Southampton to Dubai. A man stood next to me that day and wept for his shipmates who had all drowned in the freezing waters of the North Atlantic after their ship was torpedoed, and the silence on that great ship is one of my enduring memories.

Thank God for every last man and woman who put on a uniform to defend us from the unthinkable. We shall not forget.

Autumn in the Vineyards mid October

2008-10-14T08:40:00.000-07:00

The photos are the result of a quick outing before the sun went down behind the Cevenne Mountains. The warmth is incredible and the stolen grapes were warm and already tasted like the wine that they are destined to become. Actually the ones we are eating are the ones left behind by the mechanical harvesters so it's up to us and the birds to make the most of them.

Medieval Sheep - 14th October

2008-10-14T06:35:00.000-07:00

It's three months to the day since we arrived in France. Autumn has arrived in all its glory and we are so happy to be here.

The Bridge over the River Vidourle at Sommieres. Something is going to happen!

The crowd is becoming impatient. But I am sure it will be worth the wait.

Here they are. The smelliest medieval sheep you'll ever see The faces of some of the onlookers say it all!

Just a quick note to say that I am back in France after a week in England, and so very very glad to be home again. Admittedly the autumnal colours were beautiful when I managed to grab the odd gap between rather grey wet afternoons, and it didn't help that the security lady at Luton insisted on taking away two tins of baked beans and a bottle of marmite which were clearly part of a cunning recipe to bring down the aircraft.

The weather here is still mild and the vines have gone from a lush green to a mix of deep burgundy and gold. After a few days of good rain, the garden has softened enough to receive about five hundred hyacinth bulbs which we turned up earlier, and the show in Spring should be quite something.

We nipped up to Sommieres on Sunday under the impression that they were holding a Medieval Fair. Clearly something was going on because usually the market is held on a Saturday, but this time, there were new stalls laden with everything from rows of crispy almond filled sacristans(and you all know how I feel about them), huge loaves of country bread, olives of every hue and flavour, herbs and lavender products, pottery, clothing and endless cheeses and wines.

We realised that whatever action was to take place would be on the bridge that crosses the Vidourle River at the entrance to the old walled town, and we stood around with the gathering crowds, expecting at any moment to be entertained with a cavalcade of minstrels, damsels, knights in armour and an assortment of kings and queens. What did we get? Sheep. Yes, you read right - sheep. Terribly smelly idiotic confused sheep with half a dozen goats chucked in for good measure (and added smell).

There seems to be some sort of ancient custom which says that on one day of the year, a flock of sheep can be driven through the streets of Sommieres, and within half an hour, all the fragrant aromas of freshly baked bread and roasting chickens were overwhelmed with the stench of ripe sheep manure.

Fortunately they left almost as soon as they arrived, having deposited their calling cards throughout the market streets, and we continued trawling the stalls while sidestepping the chocolate drops.

So what was the medieval bit we wondered. Pausing to re-read the sign which we had only read at high speed from a moving vehicle, we realised that what it said was "Market of local produce to be held in the Medieval City of Sommieres". Then again, there was no mention of the sheep but I will enquire as so why we had to put up with the stink and get back to you!

PS I discovered that this is the tradition of "Transhumance" when the sheep are moved from the high grazing lands down to the warmer climes for the winter months. A very smelly tradition is all I can say!

The Biggest Baguette I Ever Did See - Sunday 2th Sept

2008-09-28T12:34:00.000-07:00

Imaging trying to fit that into the toaster!

The Spanish dancers at the Teyran Market

Sunday morning in France. How sweet it is to awaken to the birdsong, the outline of light behind the curtains which is a sure sign that it is going to be a sunny day, and the smell of percolating coffee. It's a bit nippy to have breakfast outside any longer, but we still enjoy our daily lunch in the courtyard and it's proving to be a lovely sun trap.

Our plans included a drive over to Teyran to check out the "Marche du Terroir" which roughly translates as a market of local country products. Teyran wouldn't be a particularly interesting venue apart from its tiny tightly built village centre, where there is little room for vehicles, and lots of small passageways to explore. We shoe-horned the car into a parking spot and walked up into the church square to be greeted with the sight of four ladies in Spanish dance clothes swirling to the rythmn of the fandango. All around us, tucked away in different alleyways and cul de sacs were stalls offering a wide range of products from pickled snails, tripes in bottles, local wines, paintings, knitting, pottery, woodwork and a huge selection of sausages made from all sorts of animals (including donkey I have to say).

My favourite stall was the bread stall (quelle surprise) and the two young guys who were operating it, were doing a roaring trade selling off large chunks of the biggest loaf of bread I have ever seen. If I hadn't been leaving for England in 48 hours, I would have happily purchased a piece, but instead, we settled for two rather delicious circular sweet pastries filled with sultanas and vanilla cream.

We managed to turn down pottery cicadas, house number plaques, stone sundials and any number of lavender products and with the music from Swan Lake wafting through the sun filled streets, we left and headed back home for lunch before driving up to Ledignan.

With the help of a couple of the staff, we got Mamy installed in the car and took her for a lovely drive through the surrounding countryside. I think she thoroughly enjoyed seeing new villages and vistas of the Cevennes Mountains which were really quite close to us, and it certainly gave her a great topic of conversation when we left her with her pals awaiting supper.

Home just in time to order a delicious anchovy pizza from Mr Marco and I am headed for bed in view of my date with the dentist tomorrow. This time I definitely am not going to forget the appointment time. Once that is over and done with, I must pack my suitcase and prepare for my departure on Tuesday. There won't be any blog for a week but I hope that you'll check back after the 7th October. I am leaving Jean with a fridge full of all sort of appetising meals and he already has a couple of lunch invitations, so I don't think he is going to pine away. Meantime, I am missing him even before I go, and I can't wait to get back to La Belle France.

Je Reviens.

A couple of Photos - Saturday 27th Sept

2008-09-27T12:32:00.000-07:00

Sommieres - the old clock tower above the town wall

Changing colours in the vineyards

I Nearly Lost My Nerve - Saturday 27th Sept

2008-09-27T11:47:00.000-07:00

I know I said No More Curtains but this really is the last one!

I have the sneaking suspicion that I am starting to suffer from senior moments. “Starting” says Jean; “How about it becoming a permanent state”.

On Wednesday (despite me losing Tuesday) he kindly phoned the dentist and made an appointment for 11am on Friday morning. The moment he told me, I went and wrote it on a piece of paper and stuck it up in full view. I then proceeded to get up on Friday morning having spent half the night raiding the medicine chest for pain killers, and convinced myself that the appointment was at 3pm. I have no idea why I didn’t consult my bit of paper, and we duly presented ourselves and were met by a slightly annoyed dentist who pointed to her computer screen which clearly stated that I should have been there in the morning. Meantime I would have sold my granny to have had the job done and the pain stopped, but now I have to wait until Monday morning.

This partly explains why there was no blog yesterday. I couldn’t think of anything particularly jovial to tell you about and I seemed to spend a lot of time sleeping off the effects of the pain killers that the dentist issued, and finishing off the final curtain.

Last night was much better and we awoke to another gorgeous sunny day and drove up to Sommieres market in order to buy some bits for friends and family back in UK, and also to meet up with some of the folks that we had met last week. This time we braved the long queue outside the terrific little boulangerie and I was rewarded with a very good sacristan. Mind you, now that I am becoming something of an expert, I must confess that the one at Lunel Market was definitely the best so far. I suppose it’s a bit like your first love – you never quite get over it!

There can be few nicer ways to spend an idle hour than nibbling your way through a whole sacristan while wandering past the sun-warmed stalls selling herbs and spices, lavender and lace, roast chickens and cheeses and home brewed beer.

We arrived at Delices du Liban just before midday and didn’t spot anyone we knew, but within five minutes, the gang began to show up. Some of the folks from last week were there and in addition, there were a few new faces, a couple of house-hunters and the general easy coming and goings. In a way, it’s a bit like being at a rather nice open-air English country pub and the babble of French and English mingles very happily.

Thanks to Douglas who is the senior member of the group, I discovered how the eating and drinking system works. At first I was a bit surprised to see someone sit down at the table and haul out half a baguette, two slices of ham and half a melon. I imagined that the owner might have something to say, but instead, our host came and plonked down a litre carafe of rosé wine and a handful of glasses. The next bunch to arrive were bearing a tray of fresh oysters. Douglas peered at the shells and said, “Hmm looks like they got the expensive ones”.

I asked what the going rate was and he looked very serious as he informed me that the usual ones are 2 euro 40 a dozen but the big ones are around 2 euro 80”. Bearing in mind the fact that you would probably have to take out a bank loan to purchase a dozen oysters in London, it sounded like a reasonable price for lunch, especially when we were washing it down with a very nice wine which was setting us back about 8 euros a litre.

Douglas then went into Hunter/Gatherer mode and disappeared for five minutes before returning with a sheet of aluminium foil in which nestled a sort of crepe filled with spicy mincemeat.
“Where is everyone finding all this food?” I queried. Douglas waved his hand indicating the busy market square in front of us.
“The Mum of the guy who runs this place does the crepes, and the cousin does the oysters and then you can get fresh bread from over there next to the chap with the sausage stall”.

He went on to explain that the couple that ran our hostelry had toyed with the idea of doing food, but realised that they were far too busy keeping up with the demands of their thirsty clientele to be fiddling around in a kitchen. Hence the fact that you bring you own lunch and they supply the drinks. How organised is that!

Rather than risk a flare up in the tooth department, I turned down offers of oysters and crepes and carefully sipped on the rosé wine, all of which resulted in me getting home with toothache and a headache.

Never mind; a snooze, the last chapter of my book and a nice gentle walk in the vineyards this evening rounded out a very pleasant day all in all. Tomorrow we are going to nip over to Teyran and see what goes on at their village artisans market before driving up to Ledignan to take Mamy out for a spin in the new car. Hopefully the weather will hold, and the golds and red and yellows are steadily overtaking the green.

I’ve just seen the forecast for my trip to UK. Rain on Tuesday and Wednesday!

I've got a Nerve - Thursday 25th Sept

2008-09-25T13:46:00.000-07:00

We want the creeper to grown on the house, but this might be a bit excessive!

No writing tonight, and I have no excuse other than the fact that the three missing bags finally arrived today, plus the missing carton of camping equipment, and the house has looked like a bomb site ever since.

I haven't been further than the front gate all day and therefore have nothing of any interest or excitement to impart, other than the thrilling information that I am going to the dentist tomorrow to have a nerve killed in my tooth. Since it has been killing me all week, I reckon it has got it coming but I am none too sure about how Jean is going to cope with being in such close proximity to things like novocaine (of which there had better be a lot) and the sound of drills (of which I hope there is not so much).

The dustbin got emptied which goes to show that if you hang on long enough, the bin men will come along.

Farewell Thabo Mbeki. It sounds like a bit of a sad day for South Africa, but maybe the ship of state will get back on course once more. I have friends in America who are worried sick about the state of their finances, and I must confess that I am rather glad that the baby spinach is looking healthy and we could always survive on acorns judging by the number that plop down onto the car every day. It's a funny old world, but I am very content with my bit of it.

"If It's Tuesday It Must be Belgium" Wednesday 24th Sept

2008-09-24T12:04:00.000-07:00

The colours are changing - The Esplanade Charles De Gaulle (but you knew that!)

I felt really bad when I woke up this morning and realised that it was Wednesday. I had spent the whole of yesterday thinking it was Wednesday and I had watched Jean nobly put the bin out last night. This meant that he had to leap out of bed this morning while it was still only half-light and go and bring it back in before the neighbours realised what idiots we were. (OK Jean, what an idiot I was).

Time is a strange thing when the hours are governed by sunshine and a slow pace of life. There is always so much to do, but the actual time of day, or day of the week seems to be very unimportant, hence the dustbin spending the night all alone on the other side of the road without any other bins to keep it company. Tonight he totally refused to put it out until he heard the rumble of Philippe putting his out.

Speaking of our neighbours, what a lovely feeling it was today when we were walking up to the village and prepared to cross at the pedestrian crossing. I realised that a vehicle had stopped for us, and on looking up to wave my thanks, I realised that it was Nathalie from over the road. How nice to be exchanging cheery waves with a neighbour once more.

We had gone up to the Mairie to finalise the paperwork on the new car, only to be handed another sheaf of forms to be filled in. However, we did make the encouraging discovery that if we go to the Montpellier Aglomeration office in Castries, they will give us a composter for free (or just about free). The leaves are about to begin falling and we really could use the proper kit if we are going to produce some good mulch for the garden next year.

The garden seems to be a bit confused at present. In the corner from where we moved the pile of wood for Michelle, we have discovered no less than two bright yellow crocuses in full bloom with more following. Whether they think it is Spring I don’t know, but they are in for a bit of a surprise when they realise that it’s only halfway through September. We’ve managed to replant just about all the bulbs that we dug up while turning and enriching the flower beds, and now we are just about ready to put the garden to bed and wait and see what happens after winter. I phoned Mum today and she informed me that she had put the heating on already, and she advised me to bring my thermal vest and a couple of warm jerseys with me.

Great news. I sent the shipping company another rocket yesterday and low and behold, the local delivery guy phoned to say that he was bringing our three missing bags plus the box of camping stuff that went astray, round to the house tomorrow morning. It’s been three months since we saw those bags and for the life of us, we can’t remember what’s in them, but I do know there is a fair amount of reading material which will be welcome.

I have just started reading “When A Crocodile Eats the Sun” by Peter Godwin, and it is desperately sad to read about the decline of Zimbabwe even though the writing is exceptionally good. I just hope that the present political upheavals in South Africa will soon be smoothed out and that our remaining friends and family who still live there will be safe. I loved my time in Africa, but this sort of reading makes me so glad that my children and grandchildren are safe and happy in Australia, and that we have found a home in France.

The threatened rain in the forecast must have decided to go elsewhere because they have changed their minds and are now promising us another week of glorious weather. The sheer joy of being able to sit out in the midday sun in the courtyard without burning or perspiring is just wonderful. No wonder those little crocuses couldn’t wait to pop their heads up.

We've Got A Ticket To Ride - Tuesday 23rd Sept

2008-09-23T11:08:00.000-07:00

The lads taking a shower in Antigone

Now don't you go pulling the plug out Fred. This water's just the right depth!

The Place Royale Du Peyrou - I'm the King and we're not having anyone else up here!

Doing the tourist thing aboard the Montpellier "Petit Train"

This morning, we watched in amazement as the man and his wife boarded the train, complete with two suitcases, a brief case and half a dozen bags of shopping.
“Do you think he reckons that this is the TGV to Paris?” asked Jean.

I had to suppress a giggle and I turned my attention to the group of men next to me who were busy putting up a series of small tents. We weren’t at the central railway station in Montpellier; we were in the Place de la Comedie, waiting for the little tourist train to depart at 11am, and the tents were being prepared to house the upcoming Artisans Fair which will be held from this coming Thursday until the end of the weekend.

The “Petit Train” that trundles around the centre of the ancient city is a very pleasant way to see some of the narrow streets and excellent viewpoints, but it still didn’t explain why our fellow passengers had so much luggage. I suppose this was their last bit of sightseeing before heading back home, and I must admit that we had all chosen the perfect day to be tourists.

The first thing I noticed when we got off the tram at Corum and started our regular walk through the Esplanade Charles De Gaulle, was that everything has changed colour. The trees are fast turning yellow, and with a slight nip in the air, most of the inhabitants of the city have changed from their summer plumage into rather more dark drab colours. The students only wear black from what I can make out, and everyone else had on a jacket or a thick jersey to ward off the autumnal chill. The open air cafes under the trees weren’t doing any trade at all and the regular coffee drinkers had moved into the Place where the sun warmed the clientele as did the strong sweet coffee.

The little train pulled away on time and I pressed the English audio guide to my ear in order to bone up on what I was seeing. Nothing! The ticket office man had assured me that I didn’t have to do anything, but I realised that I actually had to press a button every time the French commentary started up. Consequently, I was still finding out about the egg-shaped Place de L’Oeuf while everyone else was halfway up the hill.

The frustrating thing about the tour is that the carriages all have a roof, and this stops you from seeing the most interesting bits. It’s all very well to be at street level, but the view is mainly of shop fronts with the occasional glimpse down side streets. My aunt, who was a great historian, always told me never to look at old buildings at street level, but to always admire them from the second storey upwards. This is where the real architecture is, but short of craning my neck and risking having my head knocked off by a passing stone wall, I had the feeling that I was missing an awful lot.

Never mind. The sun shone, our feet had a rest, and the bits of information were interesting. Clearly the driver had a few favourite points of his own along the way, and he paused outside a little bakery and hollered for a “pain au chocolat”. This gave him the chance to point out to his passengers that this was the best bakery in town, and I have the feeling that his breakfast didn’t cost him much. The taped commentary pointed out a particular gateway through which could be seen an historic staircase, and as we approached, the solid gates opened as if by magic, and an elderly lady stood back to reveal the aforementioned staircase before shutting the gate again firmly as we trundled off. I wondered if they phoned ahead or she just listened for the rumble of the approaching train, but she was bang on cue.

One of the best viewpoints in Montpellier is at the end of the Place Royale Du Peyrou. This is the sandy area with little other than an equestrian statue in the middle and a sort of folly at the far end. Apparently the king decreed that nobody should have any sort of monument higher than his, thus ensuring that the good people of Montpellier had a jolly good vantage point to view their city and the mountains beyond in the years to come.

We did the odd jobs that needed doing, one of which was to purchase two new batteries in order to bring Ralph the blue plastic bird back to life. He was obviously in need of having his pacemaker upgraded but I think he is feeling a bit post-operative at present, because we haven’t had much of a chirp out of him.

I think I know how he feels. Even sitting down and being a tourist is a pretty exhausting pastime and I think an early night might be on the cards.

Step Away From The Axe Mother Dear - Monday 22nd Sept

2008-09-22T13:04:00.000-07:00

The back route to Braggasargues in the Gard region - no more grapes!

I heard from my pal Maggie today that England was enjoying some really great autumnal weather. A bit nippy but lovely blue skies and no rain. What a welcome change after the rotten summer that they have experienced. I thought I’d give Mum a call and see how she was enjoying being out in the garden, and she gleefully informed me that she had been trying to take down her bird table.
“I had a go with a saw but I got a bit tired halfway through, so I thought I might try the axe”.
I begged her to desist from either and to go inside and have a large sherry.

Unfortunately I know where my genes spring from, and if there is a job that needs doing, I won’t rest until I have fathomed out a way to do it. I do hope that by the time I go and visit her next week, she will have all her digits intact and Molly the Labrador will have stayed well clear of any swinging axes.

If I had a euro for every time that I have climbed up the step ladder today, I could retire a wealthy woman. However, it has been worth it, and the curtains are now in place and looking super. We got around the sewing machine problem by purchasing a few rolls of the very clever iron on tape that instantly turns to glue the moment it gets hot. In a trice I had the side seams stuck down, but I did the decent thing and hand stitched across them where I had joined them just in case someone gave them a bit of a tug, and they fell in half.

It was so lovely sitting out in the courtyard today. The sun has changed its course considerably and the table is being nudged further and further towards the bedroom wall in order to benefit from the warmth. There was a bit of an edge on the breeze, but tucked away round the corner, I sewed and sang along to my music, and decided that early autumn was a fine time of year to be in France.

My mother asked about my French studies and I had to burble all sorts of excuses, but this evening, I had the best French lesson possible. Jean’s internet business links us to the worlds largest on-line shopping mall, and we do most of our shopping on-line which is no hardship at all, since we then receive a very nice cash bonus from the reward points. It was time to do the monthly shop which we used to do through the USA Mall, but this time, I needed to shop through the French Mall and what fun it turned out to be. It’s amazing how quickly one can translate various words when in search of a really snug thermal vest or a long cosy nightdress. I even managed the check-out procedure and was delighted to get an instant 30% off my purchase. I did mention to Jean that if I were to shop every evening, I could probably pick up the language in no time, but he wasn’t buying it, not the way I wanted to buy it! It’s a free membership so if anyone is interested, have a look at The Home Shoppers Club .

We went for a walk this evening just to stretch our legs a bit and it’s amazing to see how fast the gardens are changing. The geraniums are just about over and the last of the petunias are putting on a brave show, but clearly it is time for them to move over and make way for other things. The climbing ivy and their various cousins are changing to a beautiful red and gold, and there is a distinct nip in the air by about six o clock. It’s lovely to come home, close the doors, draw the curtains and put our feet up. Tomorrow we are going into Montpellier and then I think a quick detour to Leroy Merlin and the Castries Fruit and Veg shop might be on the cards. We’ve started replanting all the hundreds of bulbs that we lifted, and I think a garden fork is something that we can no longer do without.

Right now, I am hoping that the weather will stay nice in England, but just in case, I am also hoping that my thermal vest arrives here in time. Who knows, we might even get our three missing bags by the end of the week, and then all we’ll need is our missing box which was actually on the truck but which “got lost”. Talk about hurry up and wait!

Run Rabbit Run Rabbit Run Run Run - Sunday 21st Sept

2008-09-21T12:05:00.000-07:00

The Vidourle River at Lecques

We awoke this morning to three different sounds, all of which signalled the start of autumn. There was a volley of gunfire, the baying of hounds and the unmistakeable sound of an ancient Citroen 2 cv (known as deux chevaux – two horsepower) carrying a couple of equally elderly hunters. It’s amazing how many of them you still see puttering around the country lanes and according to Jean, they are just about impossible to kill.

Speaking of killing, the volleys of gunfire signalled the start of the hunting season, and from now on, any rabbit worth its salt is keeping its head tucked inside its burrow. I can’t imagine that there is anything like sanglier (wild boar) or deer around to hunt, so I presume that it remains up to the humble rabbit to keep the French hunter in business.

We had decided to drive up to Sommieres and do a bit of shopping at the big supermarket which has re-opened in a new situation since we were here a few years back. The Vidourle river which is currently an amiable gentle river, broke its banks back in 2002 and flooded the supermarket for the second time. At this point, the owners decided to give up the fight and they moved to a slightly higher site on the edge of town. All the land next to the road which runs past the edge of the old town and along the side of the river is now extensive car parking which makes for a far more pleasant visit, knowing that you will definitely find a spot.

Having finished shopping, we then headed north towards the hill village of Lecques, but before we reached it, we drove along a country road which was being guarded by men wearing camouflage clothing, carrying large shotguns and wearing bright orange caps. The caps were so bright that quite frankly they could have been wearing Florida pineapple shirts and bright red cut-off pants for all the success that they were having blending into the countryside. At least you could see them for hundreds of yards ahead, but quite what our situation would have been if a big fat sanglier had run across the road, I don’t know. If I had been standing there since crack of dawn, I am sure that I wouldn’t give a fig for a passing motorist if he got between me and my target.

Lecques was pretty but steep, and after our climb up the hillside to the castle yesterday, we were idle tourists and took the easy way out and drove up into the village. I felt as though we should have switched off the engine and talked in whispers. Some of the residents were leaning over their balconies, still dressed in their night attire and holding a cup of coffee, while others were opening the shutters and yawning widely, and despite it being after ten in the morning, I don’t think there was going to be much action before midday.

From here we continued on up to Braggasargues and spent a very pleasant couple of hours with Jean’s sister. She and Jean had business to discuss, so I sat on the terrace and sewed another curtain and listened to the soundtrack from “Pride and Prejudice” on my Zune, and wallowed in the sunshine and the sense of peace, tranquillity and absolute beauty. By 1pm we all decided that the sun was over the yardarm and we broke out an excellent local rosé wine, and we opened up the last bottle of olives from her own tree. Crusty bread, a dish of saucisson (spicy sausage slices), some very tasty quiche and some of her enormous home grown tomatoes served with olive oil and oregano, and we had the makings of the perfect Sunday lunch in my book. No preparation, no washing up, and always a bit more cheese to finish up the last piece of bread.

A busy weekend one way and another, but one filled with beautiful countryside, early autumn colours, azure blue skies and a sense of deep satisfaction in feeling that the season is changing. This will be our first autumn in six years and we are both looking forward to it – especially now that some kind soul has given us a large gas heater and a number of snug jerseys and jackets.

Photos from Sommieres - Saturday 20th Sept

2008-09-20T12:15:00.001-07:00

The walls and tower of the Sommieres Castle. I wish we knew you could drive here instead of climbing up through the woods - Duh!

The view towards the Cevennes mountains from the hill above Sommieres.

Hunting for sacristans on the bread stall - no luck!

The Fagalde family used to be chocolatiers during the time of Napoleon. I wish we had a little shop like this to call our own!

Street stalls abound throughout the town on market day

The famous Sommieres flea market filled with all sorts of trash and treasures

Oysters and Bonhommie - Saturday 20th Sept

2008-09-20T11:41:00.000-07:00

I also felt a bit like an ancient ruin once we had climbed up to the top of the hill!

Jean inspecting bits of the Sommieres Castle

The view from the Delices du Liban - Sommieres - highly recommended

I don’t know what it is about sitting around a table with a group of people, nibbling on pieces of spicy Lebanese bread, sipping a very pleasant white wine and slurping down the occasional oyster. Is it the sunshine and the ebb and flow of the people wandering through the market? Is it the delight in suddenly being able to understand everything that is going on? Or is it that it is France on a Saturday lunchtime, and we have discovered where many of the local Brits and other assorted ex pats gather to swap news and views.

Thanks to a kindly email from Peter Holby who runs the very excellent Languedoc Pages website, we had gone off to the market in Sommieres today, partly to hunt for sacristans (in which we were unsuccessful because the queue at the bakery was too long) and partly to climb up to the castle on top of the hill (in which we were successful, despite the fact that we took the tough route straight up through the woods, instead of walking up the gently sloping road). It was only when we came back down into the centre of the busy market town that we realised we were standing outside Le Delices du Liban and I remembered that Peter had said that he would be there around midday.

In the past, we had arrived at the market early and were usually gone by 11am, but thanks to a slow start this morning and our energetic clamber up the hillside to visit the castle, we were still there as lunchtime approached and realised that not only was the market a great place to shop, but that every restaurant and bar was filled to overflowing, and the tables and chairs set up outside every available provider of food and drink were jammed with people.

From the moment that Peter arrived, it was as though the focal point of some sort of amoeba had placed itself at the table, and from then on, there was a steady flow of cheerful folks, some of whom sat and ate oysters, some of whom exchanged a quick word and moved on, and others who generally milled about greeting old friends and making new acquaintances. I couldn’t remember the last time that I had so enjoyed a casual lunchtime get-together with the chance to meet new people. The wine flowed and the countries represented by the various ex-pats seemed to expand at the same pace. Brits seemed to be in the ascendancy but they were divided into permanents and holiday-home owners. There seemed to be a fair number of Swedes, a Scot or two and some French spouses. English and French were spoken seamlessly, and the Lebanese couple who ran the restaurant were kept on their toes with the non-stop orders for platters of oysters and refilled pichets of wine.

In addition to meeting Peter and hearing more about his association with the informative “Le Thirty Four” magazine, I was also delighted to meet with Laurence Boxall who is the editor of The Languedoc Sun magazine. Her husband is the President of Brit Nimes, and within the hour, I ceased to feel in any way cut off from my fellow English compatriots, and realised that if we were prepared to make the effort to get out and about and enjoy the many things that are on offer in the region, we could once again have the sort of social life that we had enjoyed in southern Africa.

I was glad that Jean was behind the wheel as we drove home via Saussines.
The views of the old village and the expanse of vineyards that surrounded it was definitely enhanced through a gentle haze of rosé wine. Peter had explained that Saussines used to be on the main route from Montpellier to Sommieres, but now with the main route bypassing it, the village is well off the beaten track. I can tell you that there is no way on earth that our delivery truck from the other day would have made it through the centre. I found myself breathing in slightly as we threaded our way past the church and the Mairie, hoping that nobody in a hurry would be coming in the opposite direction.

So what with castles, unexpected new friends and a glimpse of yet another beautiful village, I didn’t even mind that we came away empty handed with regards to the sacristans. It would be greedy to expect to have everything on the same day now wouldn’t it!

Time Flies When You're having Fun- Friday 19th Sept

2008-09-19T11:21:00.000-07:00

I promise this is the last photo of curtains - amazing what you can do with scissors, map pins and glue!

Jean was working on his computer this morning while I was busy cannibalising the very wide short curtains in order to turn them into very long thin curtains, when he suddenly announced that it was the 19th September. I had slight difficulty in remembering what day of the week it was, never mind what day of the month it was, but then the penny dropped. This time twelve years ago, Jean and I were taking a group of friends out for lunch at the country hotel in Zastron, South Africa, prior to going off to the Magistrate’s office in order to get married.

You might ask yourself why it was that we were taking everyone out for lunch “before” we got married. The reasoning behind this was that the Magistrate had informed us that he had to do murderers in the mornings and could only marry people in the afternoon. Since we had to get home by five to feed the cattle and we wanted a bit of a celebration along the way, we ate first and married afterwards!

My goodness. If we only knew what lay ahead of us and where we would be twelve years later, I wonder what our views on the subject would have been. We went back to the farm thinking that we would be spending the rest of our lives there, and here we are twelve years later with no less than three different countries under our belts.

We fell asleep last night to the sound of rain gently pattering down into the courtyard, but were rewarded this morning by the clouds breaking up and disappearing so that by lunchtime we were sitting outside enjoying a barbeque and wearing our tee shirts again.

Lunch was a rather strange affair but very tasty. We had spotted four short kebab sticks with black balls and white balls on them. The word Boudin was written on the packaging and the photograph of them sizzling on a barbeque looked rather enticing so we decided to give it whirl. What we ended up with was the rather sloppy insides of the black balls which we think was a sort of blood pudding, and the very strange texture of the white ones which we preferred to not think about too much. We had also put a variety of red peppers, aubergines and courgettes on the fire and we chopped these up and topped them off with a very tasty tzatziki, and this, combined with a fresh crispy baguette made for the most deliciously unusual meal. Jean had also picked fresh lettuce from the garden and pulled up a handful of spicy radishes and we began to think about planting up the potager for next summer and producing all sorts of delicious things.

I am now wrestling with the yards and yards of curtain material with no sewing machine. The only pins that I can find are map pins with little plastic heads that are bruising my thumbs and fingers cruelly, but I have already completed two sets of 2.5 metre long curtains and have one more set to do. We had a break at about 5.30 this evening and went to track down the lady who does sewing in the village. However, when we saw her smart little van parked outside her house with “Couturier” written on the side, we turned tail and fled. No way was I letting her see my efforts. If I can’t find a sewing machine, then glue is the next option!

So I am off to sit on a cushion and sew a fine seam, and dream of SACRISTANS because we are going to Sommieres market tomorrow if the weather is good, and I am sure we will be into Sacristan country.

PS Two bits of important news. The two guys who run the Castries Fruit and Veg Market are not twins but they are cousins. We discovered this while purchasing our vegetables yesterday and they thought it was a huge joke that we had decided that they were twins.

The second bit of information is that I went to the dentist this afternoon and made a discovery. "Ouch" means the same in French as it does in English. When I get back from England, we will have further dealings with her. Jean hates the sound of dentist drills but had to be on hand in order to translate. Poor man - what a way to spend his anniversary!

Granny's Brag Book - Thursday 18th Sept

2008-09-17T13:05:00.001-07:00

The Bulklip Farm Guest Cottage curtains finally in place once more

My dear late Dad who was a hotshot when it came to maths used to look at me in bewilderment as he desperately tried to get me to understand the science. “But can’t you see it?” he would ask, never raising his voice, but occasionally wiping his brow. He would go on to mutter that those who thought that brilliance usually jumped a generation were absolutely right in my case.

Well today I found out that brilliance really does jump a generation, but this time, it has leapfrogged gracefully through his granddaughter who is still intent on improving her skills and who studies hard and scores high marks in all her exams. Claire phoned from Australia today to let me know that his beautiful seven year old great-granddaughter Katie had not only won the Sports prize at her school, but had also won Class Prize. I would have given anything to be sitting in school assembly this morning, applauding loudly as only embarrassing grandmothers are allowed to do.

At least from my vantage point in southern France, I don’t feel quite as far away from them as I did in Miami. This is all relative I suppose, but it does feel as though there is more of a chance of seeing something of them now that I am back in Europe. Katie informs me that she is already studying French at school, and Claire, who oddly enough spent a couple of nights here at the house long before we ever thought of living here, at least knows what I am talking about and can visualise it all which is so great.

I hoped that we could get through the day without the usual trip to Leroy Merlin, and for once we did just that. Thanks to Jean and a good shopping list, we had got all the screws and plugs and drill bits and brackets so that today we could put up the curtains in the big bedroom. I can’t imagine what his right arm must feel like pushing the drill into the solid stone walls, but the job is done and I am so thrilled to see my beautiful curtains fitting exactly, and framing the big picture window. I now have to set about cannibalising some of the others in order to get them to fit the rather long slim-line windows, and also to cover the big French windows in the lounge.

As each item that we have packed and unpacked in various countries finds its place here in the house, we feel more and more as though we belong. From the word go I had a very real feeling that I had “Come Home”, and with our bits and pieces starting to look as though they had been here all the time, we are very content.

Time is racing by and the weeks seem to go past far too fast. Until 5pm today I was convinced it was Wednesday, only to discover that it was in fact Thursday, which meant that we had missed the recycling collection. I can see the car having to do double duty as a dustcart tomorrow. I’d better not miss out on Saturday as the “smelly belly” really does need to be collected.

It suddenly turned sticky and humid this afternoon and as I write, I can start to hear the heavy rumbling of thunder coming in across the Mediterranean. The farmers are racing along with the harvest and the vineyards are largely bare of grapes, and we await the turning colours of autumn to paint the region a glorious red and gold.

After five years of sleeping under a thin cotton sheet with the overhead ceiling fan on, it is bliss to jump into bed (especially now that it doesn’t have a base-board) and snuggle under the duvet. My dear friend Sybil bought me a pair of soft pink sheepskin slippers last year before we went to Canada, and they are so cosy in the mornings if I’m on coffee duty. I am quite sure I will be squeaking when the real cold arrives, but as long as the days are sunny, we will be as snug as bugs during the evenings.

We have been so busy today that we haven’t even unlocked the gates. I think we must have a break soon and nip into Montpellier. I have library books to return and a bank card to pick up, and I really do need to check out that little lunchtime restaurant which promises the best “Croque Monsieur” (toasted cheese and ham sandwich) in the city.

Rockabye Baby - Wednesday 17th Sept

2008-09-17T13:05:00.000-07:00

The dining room end of the salon starting to take shape

I am sure you have heard the expression “ A heavy sleeper”. Well I was a heavy waker-upper, because although I can’t quite work out what happened, the much-hated baseboard of the double bed fell apart on one side, revealing a mass of worm holes. This put us in a bit of a quandary. There was no way that we could repair the bed and return it to its former state, and since half the base-board was already adrift, it seemed like a good time to try and get rid of it altogether.

The last time I saw Jean lying on his back peering up at something with a worried expression, he was under the farm truck, and oil was dripping around his ears. “Hmm” he said in a thoughtful manner, and I felt a bit like the relative of a patient awaiting the decision of a surgeon. “It’s solid oak” was his next comment, followed by “and it’s hand built”.

None of this was filling me with confidence, but he was up and running. “Tape measure, pencil and paper, electric screw driver, drill”
I ran around like a theatre sister collecting up all the tools of his trade, and then helped him strip the bed down to the bare essentials. The headboard, and solid oak frame stood there, sadly lopsided on the one side, while the offending baseboard which had so cruelly bruised my toes glared at me as if it knew its fate. I was now in a position of power and the thumb went down.
“Get rid of it” I decreed.

My wonderful master carpenter got to work and dismantled the frame but it was clear that a trip to Leroy Merlin was on the cards so that we could replace the base board with something a lot lower. To cut a long story short, we finally made it out of the shop with what seemed like a very long plank of Douglas pine which we managed to squeeze into the car by dint of lowering the back seats, and an hour after we got home, the bed was as good as new.

Of course this has played havoc with our schedule and the curtains will now have to be done tomorrow.
I find is fascinating to see what people wear to go to Leroy Merlin. The place is now like the Mother Ship for us and today they offered us a special loyalty card as we seem to be in and out of there every day. You can almost tell what sort of job people are doing by what they are dressed in. Today we stood in the queue behind a very chic couple who are definitely primping up their weekend home and seemed to be working from a list handed them by their builder. Behind us stood a man in a pair of shorts that positively shrieked at the shirt he was wearing. A bewildered look on his face made it clear that he had no guiding hand in either his choice of wardrobe or his decision making in the plumbing department. A young couple waited patiently, billing and cooing and discussing the paint that they had picked out. Was it for a first home or for a baby’s room? I rather admired the woman dressed in denim dungarees in her mid thirties who pushed a large trolley around laden with sheets of shower glass, timber, wood glue, screws and a very determined look on her face. She certainly was wearing the trousers in her household and I was quite surprised that she had slipped off her carpentry belt for the trip to Leroy’s.

It would be really nice tomorrow if we could get on with what we have planned without the daily trip back to the green emporium. Thank heavens it is only about ten miles down the road and stocks everything that a person moving into a rather elderly village house would need. But now it’s late and I think it is high time that I went and tried out the bed. Dormez bien!

Speaking in Tongues - Tuesday 16th Sept

2008-09-16T11:19:00.000-07:00

The herb collection growing steadily

It occurred to me today, while I was standing in the electric drill section of Leroy Merlin (these people should be paying me for free advertising) that I had picked up odd bits of different languages in rather strange places. My smattering of Sesotho had been learned largely in the Lesotho mountain trading station of Malealea in southern Africa, when my first husband and I went there as newly weds to run the station for a week. We arrived in the depths of winter, whereupon it promptly snowed, thus closing down the tiny airstrip and the only road which carried any traffic. Cut off from civilisation, we kept ourselves amused by taking all the money out of the safe in the shop and building our own monopoly board using the various trading stations around the country as properties, and airstrips instead of railway stations.

It was my job to hand out tickets for sweets to the little herdboys who would come in with sacks filled with old bones. With bare feet and runny noses, they would line up at the counter waiting for me to hand over the amount due to them once their bones had been weighed, but of course I always gave them more than they had earned, thus throwing out the book-keeping. But at least I did pick up quite a bit of the language between them and the excellent cook who ran the household.

My next language lesson was Afrikaans. It wasn't spoken in Lesotho, but I had already picked up a bit while watching my husband pound around a South African rugby field every weekend, and I picked up a bit more when I went into the cottage hospital across the border in order to give birth to my two children. But on the whole, the ability to be able to converse about rugby and medical matters didn’t much help once Jean and I started farming. I did make an effort to concentrate while in the farm Co-op, and it fell to me to relay instructions from my French husband to the Basotho staff who had a slight working knowledge of Afrikaans. No wonder that rows of beans turned out to be rows of potatoes, and cattle were put into the field on the left instead of the one on the right.

So here I was today, waiting patiently while Jean chose just the right drill bit in order to make some impression on our two foot thick solid stone walls, and listening to the sales pitch on the little TV screen. Now my knowledge (in French) of electric drills and the secrets to great irrigation systems has increased enormously, but once again, I doubt that these topics of conversation will come up all that much.

While I am on the subject of Leroy Merlin, I have to congratulate them on having not only lots of staff, but cheerful young agile staff who are ready, willing and able to find exactly what you want. The young ladies on the till are all trim, well turned out, smiling and efficient, and I am sorry to say that in most cases, the people doing a similar job in the shops of south Florida could do with a major training overhaul. In France, it would appear as though the customer is always right and he is there to be helped in order to make his shopping experience a pleasant one. What a strange concept!

Jean has finally conquered his irrigation systems, and it is now possible to simply turn on a tap, and the potager waters itself. He has also installed hosepipes to the front and back garden. This morning, he arrived in the kitchen and announced that he had completed the “vendange” and he placed a small bowl of deliciously sweet grapes onto the table. I think it took us all of five minutes to eat our harvest, but next year, we will have the four vines laden with fruit, and hopefully the plum, pear and peach trees similarly abundant.

Gone are the evenings when we would sit out on the terrace and have supper and then stay out there and read and work on the computers. By six thirty, we are starting to pull on jerseys and tracksuit pants and begin closing the windows. However, it was bliss to sit in the sun after lunch and have a snooze without being either burned or over-heated. We are thinking about the prospect of building some sort of decking in our sloping courtyard so that we will have a place for our table during winter, when our suntrap will be the best place to sit. Jean says that “I” am thinking about the decking, whereas he is still thinking about the curtains which need to go up, the pictures which have to be hung and the fact that we still need to work a few hours each day on the computers in order to make a living.

Having listened to some of the woeful financial reports currently rocking the various markets, we were swapping well known English sayings such as “cut your coat according to your cloth” when Jean came up with a French one.
“Never fart higher than your backside”. I leave it up to you to make what you will of that!

Wheels Within Wheels - Monday 15th Sept

2008-09-15T13:05:00.000-07:00

The bedroom window framed with the curtains from the farm guest house in Africa. I always knew I would find a use for them.

Not a great deal going on today but I did wake up and have a very good idea. This is where Jean usually puts his head in his hands and says "Oh no, what is it this time?"

It suddenly occurred to me while lying in bed looking out of the window at the huge pile of cardboard boxes and bags of packing paper, that it was daft to chuck the whole lot out. There is going to come a time when we will be in need of some, if not all of it, and remembering that we had a big woodshed with very little in it, I thought that rather than have to replace it all at some stage, it made sense to tie the whole lot up and store it. No sooner thought than done, and in five minutes the whole lot had disappeared from view so the trip to the tip was cancelled.

On the 1st September, it became law in France that every vehicle must keep an emergency triangle and a luminous vest on board. We found the vest quite quickly, but had a dickens of a job hunting down a triangle. All the big shops had sold out but we found a little auto spare parts place and managed to purchase his last one. Whoever is churning these things out must be making a quick buck, and apparently in Spain you have to have not one but two triangles.

Just as well we managed to get equipped because we returned our borrowed car today and from now on we have our snazzy Citroen to buzz around in. What a wonderful change for my poor aching shoulders to have power steering. We did make one rather nasty discovery when we drove home however. Usually I drive up onto the curb opposite the house while Jean unlocks the gates. I did this as usual and then heard a horrible grating sound coming from underneath. Clearly the hydrolics didn't like this operation at all and the car must have descended. I gingerly reversed back onto the road and managed to drive it into the garden and I just hope that all is well tomorrow when we take it out.

The drive up to the Gard region was so pretty today with the country bathed in glorious sunshine and the faintest hint of yellow appearing in some of the trees and the grapevines. It is so great to be able to pull on a pair of jeans and a light jersey rather than dripping with perspiration in a tee shirt and skirt. Our dressing gowns arrived in the nick of time and now we go out and sip our first cup of coffee in the garden and check on the progress of the vegtetables, rather glad to be snug in an extra layer.

News from the shipping people is that our three bags are coming down by courier, and I also hope that they track down the missing box with all our camping kit in it. We did get the tent, but that's no use without all the tackle that goes with it. There are certain people who used to say that my camping list was only slightly longer than the Gettysburg Address, but then again, you always got marmalade on your toast and ice in your gin and tonic on my camping trips! I doubt very much that we will get around to doing any camping, especially since we have discovered the joys of touring in an RV or Camper van (depending on which side of the Atlantic you are on), but who knows - maybe our grandson will get to use it one day, and I can pass on my list as well!

Home Sweet Home Again - Sunday 14th Sept

2008-09-14T10:05:00.001-07:00

All that remains of our forty boxes

It's done! ALL the boxes have been opened, and thanks to the huge amounts of cupboard space, plus a very big garage, we have actually managed to find a home for everything. I made it my final mission to clear the dining room table this evening, and the old oil cloth has been removed, the surface polished and once again it has become part of the decor instead of a dumping ground.

All we have to do now is to load up the piles of collapsed cardboard boxes and get them down to the tip tomorrow, and it will all seem like a dream. Of course, what would make it like a dream come true is for the remaining three bags to appear, but for the moment, they are on the other side of the Channel, and right now, we are too tired to care.

Thank heavens for the fact that we have a long passage-way which leads from the kitchen through to the bedrooms and I think it is going to become the photo and art gallery. I had no idea how many framed pictures we had, and I feel sorry for Jean who has to do battle with steel nails and a concrete drill to make any impact on the solid stone walls of the house. He has been such a star and all our old favourites are up on the wall and in the right place. We noticed that there were any number of hooks already in the walls, but not a single one was where we needed it to be.

And so our little village house which has stood empty for so long is really taking shape as our new home, and it is such a joy to once again be surrounded by our possessions. We always laughed when we were on the farm, and said that if a thief were to appear, we would happily follow him round until he found something of any value. The value of everything lies in the stories and the memories which go with them, and from a tiny piece of carved rock which came from Jean's birthplace in what was then French Indo China, to the treasured items of pottery from Lesotho and the water colour paintings of Africa, we have travelled many miles and lived many different lives in order to make this collection.

Family and friends have added to it with things as diverse as photos of new grandchildren and fridge magnets from extraordinary places plus some wonderful paintings done by my mother who proved that retirement is an excellent time to take up watercolour. My book collection had to be severely cut back when we left Miami, but all my favourites are still with me, and the photo albums are safely on a shelf awaiting a rainy day when I might look through some of them again and wonder if I really did live that extraordinary life.

They Came, We're Sore, We've Conked Out - Saturday 13th Sept

2008-09-13T12:25:00.000-07:00

Santons - the local handmade dolls which are becoming increasingly valuable if you have one which is signed by a well known maker. We have just unpacked our two and they are in pride of place on the mantelpiece.

You know that feeling when you wake up and you just know that Today is The Day. We were absolutely certain that having spoken to the driver last night, they were within reach of us and the coffee was brewing and the fresh croissants were on the plate by 9am when the phone rang.

"We've just been pulled over by Customs outside Montpellier and we have to sit for an hour until they clear the eight trucks ahead of us".

What can you say? They know it is all just a matter of paperwork and apparently they have to drive through this huge Xray machine, so with a couple of hours to spare, we leapt off to Leroy Merlin and rounded up a few more bits for the garden hose and the curtain rails.

I was just settling down on the terrace to clear my emails when I heard a whistle from Jean who was fiddling about in the garage.

"Wow, here they come".

I ran to the front door, and sure enough, here came the biggest road train that I could have imagined. Horse, trailer and another trailer behind, all emblazoned with the name of the Company who shall remain nameless for a very good reason. I am pretty mad at them, because having offloaded our forty boxes, they realised that the three precious vitally important excess bags which had been combined with the sea freight had been left behind in the warehouse in UK. Nobody to yell at because the office is closed on a Saturday, and the poor driver and his mate weren't responsible because they hadn't packed the truck.

What can you do? No point in getting in a spin but I just hope that they have the decency to send our stuff down by rail if they don't have a truck leaving very soon. They've certainly got a fairly brisk email awaiting them when they get back to work on Monday morning.

It has been an exciting and exhausting day, but we are sitting inside this evening, not only due to the fact that it is getting pretty nippy on the terrace by about 8pm, but it is so lovely to see our paintings up on the walls and some of our bits and pieces starting to appear. We must have opened half the boxes, and tomorrow is going to be a busy morning followed by a quick trip up to visit Mamy and show her the new car.

Bed is calling and the only slight drawback is that the sheets are still packed in a box and the bed is covered with the contents of another three. Hey Ho. I'd better go and try and make some sort of effort or I shall be sleeping in this very comfortable recliner chair, clutching the remnants of a rather nice glass of wine which was very much needed.

Hurry Up and Wait - Friday 12th Sept.

2008-09-12T11:29:00.000-07:00

The street outside our front gates - I can't imagine an 18 metre truck there!

The day got off to a flying start. Sheets off the bed and into the washing machine, furniture moved out of the way in the lounge to make way for the arrival of the boxes, a quick breakfast, a whizz through the emails and we were ready.

I SAID WE WERE READY!!! Eventually by midday I phoned England. Ever since I heard of the fire in the Channel Tunnel yesterday, I had visions of our forty packing cases going up in smoke, and was relieved to hear that they only use the ferry service. Our shipment was fairly close but the driver of the huge truck was having difficulties. He had a small shipment to drop off in Narbonne which is halfway to the Spanish border from where we are, but he had arrived in the city to find that the street where he had to deliver had been dug up at one end and all the traffic had been diverted to go the other way. This is fine if you are in a zippy little car, but try sorting that one out in a huge road-train truck.

I finally caught up with the poor driver on the phone and he sounded as though he had just about run out of steam and enthusiasm and I assured him that he could pull over for the night and come here tomorrow morning. I even held out the prospect of fresh coffee and bacon and eggs, and he promised that he would appear by 9am. It actually makes good sense because our narrow road is hectic at both ends of the working day, but with most of France lying in bed late on a Saturday morning, we can hopefully get him offloaded and on his way before people start heading for the boulangerie to purchase their first baguette of the day.

In lieu of getting all our stuff, we decided to take the new car out for a spin and what an enjoyable outing that was – once we sorted out the slight problem of having about two teaspoons of diesel left in the tank and being rather a long way from the pumps at Castries. We drove around one of our favourite circuits taking in Montaud and St Hilaire de Beauvoir, and close inspection of the vines told us that the machines had been working hard this week and many of the vineyards had been cleared of grapes. Apparently machine picking can be done for the grapes that go to the co-ops which produce run of the mill local wines, but the serious wine makers have all their grapes cut by hand, and I am hoping to be able to get out to St Jean De L’Arbousier and get some photos of the “vendange” for you.

So the old clean sheets are back on the bed instead of my lovely fresh Egyptian cotton ones, and we are camping in the middle of the lounge rather than putting the furniture back, but tomorrow brings the promise of a great big truck and a cheerful driver who from here, will be turning his nose for home, since he can’t go any further south.

Just before I go, I feel that I should make a confession. I have discovered a recipe for Sacristans. This way surely lies madness, but they look so easy to make. The trouble is that the recipe will produce a batch of about ten large ones and as we all know, these are not going to stay in a tin and be kept for a rainy day for the following reasons:
a) It rained last night so we are in the clear for a while
b) I don’t have any tins
c) We will eat the whole lot at one sitting

Mercifully for my hips, they don’t seem to be quite as easily available in this area and it sounds as though Lunel up to Nimes is the best hunting ground for the perfect Sacristan. Maybe I’ll pick some up en route to the airport at the end of the month and take them home for Mum. I think she’d enjoy one with her coffee and I know I would.

Photos from Nimes - Wednesday 11th Sept

2008-09-11T12:22:00.001-07:00

A section of Nimes Amphitheatre, the best preserved one in the world

Amazing architecture all built by slaves I suppose. No days off, just a quick trip down to the lions at the bottom if you felt like having a "go slow".

Nimes amphitheatre after the Christians and lions have left. It is now used for bullfights and rather lovely open air concerts

Tell me how is a girl supposed to keep her figure in this country?

Helping the new University students to raise funds - whipped cream and very tasty!

Going Back In Time - Wednesday 11th Sept

2008-09-11T10:14:00.000-07:00

There you are - your very own Sacristans, except we ate two of them - Sorry!

Move over Russell - you've got competition!

It has not escaped our notice that today marks the anniversary of the terrible events in New York, and to all my American friends and readers, you are in our thoughts on this sad day.

We had been slightly concerned about the effects of the CERN project since there were those who thought it possible that we might suddenly pitch up in another century. We really felt as though we had done just that today when we drove up to Nimes and embarked on a tour of the Roman amphitheatre.

I have to confess that the closest I have ever gotten to a Gladiator is a rather hazy memory of Charlton Heston striding about in a rather short leather skirt which did him very few favours from what I can recall, and of course the delectable Russell Crowe who really gave the sport a boost.

Thanks to an extremely good English audio tour, we got a thorough inside view on just how the place was operated. Details not for the faint hearted were expounded upon and apparently the word “Arena” comes from the Latin word for sand, of which huge amounts were needed to cover up the puddles of blood which accumulated everywhere. There were nasty Romans and quite nice ones, and a few eminently sensible ones who knew that if the thumb went down (in fact it was a flat hand and a thumb stuck out) the gladiator in question could be put to death by his victorious opponent, but then he, as the organiser, had to pick up the tab from the Gladiator Training School. Clearly, having shelled out copious amounts of money on keeping the crowds happy and making sure that all the top knobs had the best seats in the house, it didn’t make good business sense to then allow someone to kill the goose which was laying the golden egg.

The tour took us up steep stairs, through tunnels and up and down various levels of the arena itself, and all the while, we were very aware of what life must have been like for both the combatants and the crowd. Having exhausted the subject of the gladiatorial fighting and the animal hunts, we were then given a quick run down on the more modern sport of bull fighting. I had been under the impression that the bulls weren’t killed in Nimes, but sadly they are, and I found my interest ebbing away. I am sure that the aficionados of the art of killing a bull will find me weak and wimpy, but cornering an already wounded creature and then stabbing it to death isn’t my idea of a fun way to spend the day.

We had a bit of a wander around the inner part of the city and decided that we were in desperate need of something delicious. By now you will know that we headed straight for the best boulangerie we could find, and joy of joys, there was a tray of Sacristans just waiting for me. I thought of you all this time, and since you weren’t there to share one, I took a photo for you. Enjoy!

The most useful part of the trip was getting the car insured. The paper work is now done and hopefully tomorrow morning we can go for a little spin before the truck arrives. It’s going to be a busy day so please forgive me if you don’t hear from me. I promise to make up for it later on.

So Far So Good - Wednesday 10th Sept

2008-09-10T13:15:00.000-07:00

This is the future as far as I am concerned so nobody had better mess it up!

I awoke this morning and the first thing that I heard was the sound of a pigeon calling out in morse code. “WHO WHO WHO, WAH WAH WAH, WHO WHO WHO”.

“Wake up” I nudged Jean. “Listen to that – it’s morse code, it’s SOS”. I had seen enough episodes of ‘Moonlight’ all about the French Resistance when I was fifteen to know just what was going on”.

Jean who had spent time in the French Army doing his military service, knows a bit about morse code and wasn’t falling for it.

“I’m telling you – one of those message pigeons that they used in the war must have bred in this area and this is one of it’s offspring and they are definitely sending a signal. Oh heck, do you think it’s an alarm call – has the Hadron Collider gone off with a bang and this is nature’s way of letting us know”.

“Look, if we are still here, that means that the coffee is still here. Now are you going to get it or am I?” His tee shirt was rumpled and so was my hair, so clearly we had not gone to another century or galaxy. So much for the Big Bang theory and I pulled on a dressing gown and went to hunt for our two existing coffee mugs.

It is now late evening and it has been one of those days when I can’t say that we have achieved very much, but then again, all sorts of things have been brought to the boil. I think a trip up to Nimes might be on the cards tomorrow as it sounds as though the insurance man is coming into line. Apart from arriving at the airport eight weeks ago, we have seen very little of the city, so it will be nice to take a trip and see the sights.

Postman Patricia delivered a large box that contained a roll of hosepipe and an assortment of plumbing bits which means that we now have the ability to water both front and back garden. We also had a quick trip down to Leroy Merlin (I am sure he was a break dancer in years gone by with a name like that) and we came home triumphant with a 4 metre long curtain rail sticking out of the front window of the car. My gorgeous curtains from the guest cottage on the farm are finally going to be unpacked and hung once more. I haven’t seen them for the best part of nine years and it will be so good to wake up and see those soft colours which represent the cosmos flowers which grew all over Lesotho and Southern Africa.
As my children used to say – “just two more sleeps” and everything will be here.

The high point of my day was a cuddle with our grandson. Priscilla, Damien and Carol Lynn came over for a drink and pizza and of course little Ilhan was the star of the show until he had eaten and promptly fallen asleep again. He is going to be as tall as an American basketball player judging by the length of those little legs, but of course his dad is built like a drainpipe so it is hardly surprising. Priss is doing an Angelina Jolie and has got her figure back within three weeks and motherhood is totally second nature to her.

I have just checked the BBC online news and discovered that although the early stages are going well, the actual serious part of the CERN experiment will only occur over the next few days. So for the time being, it is all rumours that Lake Geneva has been sucked into a Black Hole, and I think we can rest easy in our beds tonight. I am sure the pigeon will give us a warning if we need to take action, although I have no idea what action you have to take if you are about to be turned into a proton. Anyway, I didn’t bother to do the washing up tonight and I don’t know if that can be construed as being positive or negative or just bone idle.

Particles and Past Participles - Tuesday 9th Sept.

2008-09-09T07:22:00.000-07:00

Apparently this is what a Black Hole looks like. I hope I've got the right tee shirt on!

“Why are you ironing the tee shirt that I sleep in?” demanded Jean on his way through the kitchen this morning.

“Because Maggie says that if this experiment in Switzerland tomorrow goes haywire, we might all end up in some new dimension or in another century, so I thought we ought to go to bed looking tidy just in case”.

“What the hell are you talking about?” he asked, but since he was on his way to the garage, it was not the right time to share my concerns about us being turned into lots of tiny particles and left floating around in outer space, even if we are wearing well ironed tee shirts.

In view of the confusion surrounding the outcome of the Hadron Collider (even though with a name like that it sounds like something out of Dr Who), Maggie and I had a brief email discussion about the virtues of sleeping with a pencil and notebook somewhere about our persons just in case we needed to leave a message in another century so that we could hook up again. I also told her to carry a Swiss Army Knife, but she didn’t think that her nightdress had pockets. These are not the sorts of concerns that men have and as usual, it is left up to us women to work out how to gather up the remains of humanity if it all goes pear-shaped.

I think that secretly Jean might be concerned about what might happen because he has suggested that we bring Ralph and his little blue house indoors. Perhaps he thinks that if the experiment at CERN goes wrong, Ralph might suddenly morph into a massive pterodactyl with beaks on both his feet and the ability to carry us miles up into the sky and then drop us. At least if he is indoors, he will have a problem getting airborne if he has got this solid stone house to lift, along with the two of us filled with Sacristans and baguettes.

I am quite sure that many of you who read the title of yesterday’s blog thought that I had lost the ability to spell. We are still trying to insure the car which will in time ensure happy carefree motoring, but for the time being, we are getting the usual run-around from insurance brokers who are trying to sell us policies that would cover a brand new sports car, let alone our ten year old Citroen. A friend has kindly gone into battle for us and hopefully she will manage to extract a good deal from an insurance pal of hers, so for the time being, we are housebound awaiting phone calls, with a garden clogged up with cars that we can’t drive.

Instead of worrying about particles, I have been trying to get to grips with participles and other worrying French adjectives and verbs. Only I would start to learn a foreign language the day before the earth is supposed to disintegrate, but you never know whom you are going to meet out there, and a friendly “Bonjour” might be just what I need to be taken aboard the Star Ship. I have found several excellent websites that are encouraging, and they even try and make some sense of the male and female gender and the mysteries of tu and vous. Yesterday evening while we were out for a walk, Jean fired numbers at me in English and I had to translate them quickly into French. Memories of my school-girl studies disappeared like butter off a hot plate and trying to wrestle my way around seven hundred and seventy seven nearly made my nose bleed and my eyes pop. No wonder French is the language of diplomats; it takes so long for them to work out what to say and how to say it correctly that they have to think before any violent outbursts are made. Wouldn’t it be nice if a few more politicians used it, or at least weren’t allowed to make any major decisions until they had learned the basics. That would slow them down a bit!

Our walk yesterday evening started out as a gentle stroll just around the corner to find the illusive “Popes Armchair” which is supposed to be some chunk of stone that a Pope from many centuries past, lowered his posterior on to. Despite walking right out of the end of the village and discovering an ancient stone track deeply embedded with the marks of countless wagons that had been used to haul the aforementioned chunks of stone around the place, there was no sign of any armchair. We walked so far that we found ourselves deep in the garrigue, and decided before darkness fell, to turn around and head for home. I didn’t want to be confronted with the ghostly spirit of some ancient Pope wandering around looking for a place to sit down. Mind you, maybe he would have more success in finding it than we did.

And on that happy note, if there is no blog tomorrow, you know that we are all floating around with our mouths attached to our feet and our eyes on the ends of our fingertips. At least our grandson is coming on a state visit tonight and we are buying pizza from Marco, so we intend to go out with a bang (which I fear is what a lot of the scientists seem to think might happen).

As a footnote, Jean who has just heard this has announced firmly that Black Hole or no Black Hole, he is going to fix his wooden mallet. You’ve gotta love a man with his feet on solid ground!

Insuring our Future Happiness - Monday 8th Sept.

2008-09-08T08:54:00.000-07:00

The stone cross in the countryside outside Montaud. Crosses like this are hidden away in every village that we see, often draped in ivy and built into old stone walls.

“Bonjour Madam. I am calling to insure my car”
Pardon Monsieur:
a) It is Monday and the office is closed
b) the computer system is down
c) I will call you back in forty minutes
d) We are waiting to hear back from the other insurers

End result: It is now 5.30pm and we are still sitting here looking at our smashing new car and we can’t drive it. I have even gone so far as to sit in it with the French handbook trying to decipher the difference between the air conditioning operations and the rear windscreen washer. So much for insurance agents pounding the pavements looking for business. We were quite surprised because when we phoned someone on Saturday lunchtime, he was round to the house within half an hour handing out business cards and a series of numbers that would ensure us instant service.

It’s a bit annoying because this is one week that I want to pass quickly so that it will be Friday and that monster truck will stop outside the house and offload our forty boxes. “Forty”! What on earth have we got coming? I’ve looked through the inventory and it sounds as though it should all fit into ten boxes, but clearly this is not the case.

We took a chance on all the insurance offices being closed at lunchtime and nipped into Castries to get some groceries, and it was evident that the grape harvesting is just about to start. Coming towards us was a peculiar slimline tractor that appeared to be built like a sort of catamaran, and behind it followed a slow moving procession of about forty cars. If this had been Miami, there would have been short tempers and dangerous overtaking going on, but at this time of year, the drivers seem to understand that it is of vital importance for the machinery to get to the vineyards if we are all to benefit from the end product.

We went out for a drive last night so that I could bump up my portfolio of photos to show you, and at the same time, take a look at a very picturesque village up near Pic St Loup where Jean’s other daughter Carol Lynn is going to have an apartment. It still amazes me how a distance of a few miles can alter the surrounding countryside from rolling vineyards to olive groves planted into the rough stony hillsides. The garrigues which is the rocky countryside covered in coarse bush and stunted trees is still in its original form from the time when the Romans tramped through here, but metre by metre, the land is being tamed and put under vines. The late evening sun throws the most beautiful glow on the old village houses, and around every corner there is the possibility of a good photograph, although more often than not, immediately behind me is a small white van driven by a man in a hurry to get home for his supper.

We called into our favourite fruit and veg market in Castries today and the brother who served us (we don’t know which one as they appear to be identical), greeted me in fractured English and I responded in equally fractured French, and I realised that if I gained pleasure from hearing someone trying to speak my language, then maybe the French also took pleasure in my desperate efforts to speak theirs. I do hope so because I make a stab at most things but rely heavily on Jean to straighten out my messes and relieve the confusion. It usually results in lots of laughter and “Au Revoirs” and “Goodbye’s” and the standard “Bon Journée”.

Whoever says that the French are rude and refuse to speak English, clearly haven’t done their shopping at the Castries Fruit and Veg Market or bought their stamps at the local post office. I can’t speak for the shopkeepers and cab drivers of Paris, but there are no complaints with the service providers of the Languedoc Roussillon as far as I am concerned.

Photos from the Lunel Market - Sunday 7th Sept

2008-09-07T05:18:00.000-07:00

Jean doing his Duke of Edinburgh impression

Tempting late summer flowers

Every herb a cook could ever want

"Come on, I'll bet there is another boulangerie up here"

For some strange reason, the photo of the bread stall didn't come out. Maybe the camera is trying to tell me something: i.e. "Step away from the Sacristans".

Frailty Thy Name Is Woman - Sunday 7th Sept

2008-09-07T04:42:00.000-07:00

Dried flowers at the Lunel Market

Loyalty is something that I try and encourage, both in myself and in others. I like to think that I am loyal to my family and to my friends, but today my loyalty was sorely tested.

I had only recently discovered that delicious confection – the palmier which lay on the shelf in the boulangerie, heart shaped and glistening with studs of sugar. This had almost taken over the place in my heart that had been captured by the discovery of the fougasse, crisp, layered and impregnated with pieces of olive.

But today, out of the blue, in the middle of the bread stall on the Lunel market, I experienced what the French would call a “coup de foudre”. I was struck, not by lightening, but by the foot long icing sugar dusted, almond decorated Sacristan. I hadn’t seen one before, or if I had, I wasn’t in the sort of receptive state that we were in today. We had wandered around a few of the back streets of Lunel, diving in and out of various bakeries, but never quite seeing what we wanted, and it was because of this that we ended up at the bread stall in the busy Sunday market place.

The lady behind the counter looked at me in an almost understanding manner as she wrapped two of them in little sheets of paper and handed them over.
“Quick” I said to Jean as he waited for his change.
“There are some steps just around the corner, we can sit and eat them there”.

It has to be explained that a Sacristan cannot be eaten on the hoof as it were. It requires that the eater be seated with both hands free in order to break off crispy chunks and pop them straight into the mouth before the chin and chest are dusted with icing sugar. With free hands, it is possible to lick the end of one finger and pick up all the bits of toasted almond which fall onto the paper, and sitting in the late summer sun, watching the shoppers choosing their plants and herbs and flowers, there can be no better combination of taste and entertainment.

The Lunel Sunday Market had been rather a disappointment the last time we went there, but then again, it was high season and the bulls were of more importance than the market. Today the bull ring was closed and the stalls were back in place, and with the most perfect weather which followed on, almost apologetically after two or three rather overcast damp days, everyone was out and about.

Talk about a paradise for the potager. Row upon row of vegetable plants were on offer, and it would seem that frost and cold hold very little fear for the gardeners in this region. Leeks are very high on the popularity list followed closely by cabbages and winter salad. Every herb that I have ever heard of was available, and alongside were multitudes of brightly coloured bedding plants, flowers, creepers and indoor pot plants.

We were sorely tempted to buy something that would brighten up the front wall of the house, but common sense prevailed and we decided to wait until next spring and then put in a climber that is already well advanced which will quickly clamber up a trellis. The choice is huge and I shall have to decide whether to go with my great favourite the bougainvillea, or go for something slightly less exotic with a good track record. I think we shall have to resume our evening walks and spy over garden walls and see what is doing well.

I have been reading emails from friends in soggy England and from friends in hurricane haunted Miami and I have to guard against sounding too smug, but Boy Oh Boy are we glad to be living in the south of France.

Two New Sets of Wheels - Saturday 6th Sept

2008-09-06T09:13:00.000-07:00

Our new set of wheels

4.15pm - now which bit goes where?

4.45 - with a bit of help from his spanner mate

“But it’s my turn”
“No you did it last time”
“But you always do it and I want to”
“Oh OK, here you are”

At last I got Jean to hand me the spanner and he held the screwdriver.
It’s been ages since the two of us argued – at least over a spanner and a screwdriver, but I always think that the spanner end of the job is more glamorous, and anyway, Papy had filed the ends of the screwdriver to almost nothing, which resulted in the screwdriver slipping off the head of the screw.

OK I know this is technical stuff for some of you, but then again, there are those who can work out how to operate Group Mail on a high speed broadband and those who can buy a wheelbarrow in pieces for twelve euros and put it together in half an hour.

Working on the wheelbarrow brought back happy memories of climbing halfway up the farm windmill scaffolding in order to pass tools to Jean who was clinging to the top with one arm and reaching down to me.
“No not that one, the red one”
“You mean the monkey wrench?”
“No the flat red one – spanner”
“Spanner face yourself”.

It would usually end up with windmill working again and the two of us hiking back to the farmhouse, holding hands and swinging a bag of tools while singing some fairly rude French song.

I was always getting told off because if the situation required for me to stand over him while he wrestled with a recalcitrant nut or bolt, I could never resist dropping a kiss on his ear which would make him bellow “Not now”. Not too many complaints this afternoon however, because a wheelbarrow is a much easier assembly job than a windmill breakdown, or dealing with a nasty knocking noise in a diesel generator, or a suspicious clunking under the farm truck.

I am starting to look back on those five years we have just spent in Miami and try as I might, I can’t remember seeing him with a screwdriver in one hand and a spanner in the other, and come to think of it, it’s been a long time since I’ve seen him as happy as he is now. Any man who has a tool shed, a potting shed and a garage with a drawer containing lots and lots of assorted nuts and bolts is a contented man in my book.

Just as well we got the wheelbarrow built. It is now raining gently and the huge tree in the courtyard which Jean calls a “micoucouliere” is no longer acting as an umbrella. It won’t be more than a couple of months and the thousands upon thousands of leaves are going to start falling. Our English friends up in Braggassargues told us the other day that she had got a concrete mixer for Christmas and he had a power drill. . I wonder if I can ask Father Christmas for a leaf shredder!

As you can see from the photos, we are now the proud possessors of a Citroen Xantia which comes with power steering and air conditioning, and the rather alarming ability to raise and lower itself hydraulically. We have been grateful for the use of the old Golf, but my shoulders are going to be extremely grateful for the power steering. I understand that almost all French cars are gear stick operated and the drivers here sneer at the American dependence on automatic gearboxes. I am quite enjoying changing gears again, and I am far happier with the reduced size of the car. I fear that Big Bum, our monster car from Miami, wouldn’t even get its nose through the garden gate.

It is 5.45 Saturday evening, and behind the rattle of the raindrops, I can hear the village church bell calling the faithful to mass. Ralph the blue plastic bird had a little sing earlier on. I think he enjoys the prospect of rain – either that or he was encouraging us in our spanner endeavours. It starts to feel like time for a glass of rosé wine and some of those delicious olives from the market. What can I get for you?

"Mama Mia" That Was Good - Saturday 6th Sept.

2008-09-06T02:53:00.000-07:00

The elegant Gaumont theatre in the Place de la Comedie

I have discovered, to my detriment, that there is no point in waiting until the urge for a mille feuille becomes so overwhelming that I beg Jean to walk up to the boulangerie at 10.30 in the morning in order to buy me one. He has just returned with one croissant and one pain au chocolat, and the promise from the baker that if he gets in early tomorrow, he will hang on to one for me. Tomorrow my conscience might be in charge and I will be able to turn down anything on offer behind those gleaming glass counters, but I have heated up the coffee, cut the croissant and the pain au chocolat in half and we are enjoying a taste of each.

Having gazed in awe last night at the slim trim figure of Meryl Streep leaping about and dancing like a demon, I should be resisting all temptations of a culinary nature. “Mama Mia” was an absolute joy to see and although there will be those who find it necessary to sneer slightly at the acting abilities of some of the cast, and claim that you could shoot peas through the story line, I defy anyone to watch the film without a broad smile on their face and the terrible urge to sing out loud in the cinema.

The Royal Cinema is just off the Place de la Comedie which made for an excellent excuse to get there early to ensure that we knew where it was and to buy our tickets, thus avoiding the rush later on. The lady in the little glass box assured us that there would be no fight for seats as it was playing in the original English version with subtitles, and I would say that about fifty of the ABBA faithful turned up. The seats are plentiful and extremely comfortable, and the Royal gets my vote as it hosts a lot of original language version films and they are reasonable in their ticket pricing at 8 euros.

Having purchased our tickets, we needed a bite before going to the show, so we bought a small, but may I say utterly delicious pizza each and then realised that there was nowhere to sit and eat it. Every street in Montpellier is filled with chairs, but they are attached to tables and serviced by waiters, so no chance to rest weary legs and enjoy a cheap nibble. The city fathers have even re-organised the surrounds of the Trois Graces fountains so that nobody can be tempted to dine al fresco and then drop their paper bags into the waters. Eventually, we did the only clever thing we could think of, and sat on one of the benches at the tram line which runs right through the centre of the Place, and had the best view of the lights and the other people watchers.

Of course a good pizza needs to be washed down with something, so we wandered into the upper streets of the old quarter and found a very pleasant little square, buzzing with bars and restaurants. It is obvious that the University is starting to come to life after the summer recess and instead of tourists, the streets are now filled with tee shirted kids with American accents, English youngsters with earnest expressions looking as though they had just nipped over from Oxford for the day, black clothed German students and serious looking professors.

The atmosphere had changed totally since our trip in last week, and it was fascinating to watch the students and their outfits. The French girls stood out a mile and my favourite was a pretty lass astride a bike, wearing long blue socks which covered her knees, short shorts which barely covered her bottom, and an arrangement of tee shirt and waistcoat, all topped off with wildly curly hair. She peddled around greeting old friends, pausing to kiss everyone she met, and narrowly avoiding a young man on a mono-cycle who was weaving his way around the square also waving open arms at his acquaintances. For the price of a glass of rose, I reckon it is the most entertaining hour that money can buy and I strongly encourage anyone to give the usual touristic haunts of Comedie a miss and work your way up into the old quarter where the students rule.

We came out of the movie at around 10.30 and the streets were jammed with laughing drinking young people, but there was none of the manic forcing down of quick-fix alcohol, but rather an amoeba-like movement of laughter, greetings and amiability. I have avoided the drinking youth of England, and steered clear of the over-priced high pitched loud music plagued haunts of Miami. But this was something quite different, and we moved through the crowd feeling completely at ease. No raised voices, no rough swearing or threatening tones. Just young people happy to be out in the mild evening air with a glass in their hands, thoroughly enjoying themselves. It makes one think that perhaps all small children should be offered a glass of watered down wine as they are growing up alongside their parents, and maybe there would be a lot less of the desire to drink the pub dry within the first half hour of arriving, followed by a knife fight or violent vomiting in the nearest gutter.

We walked past another of the large groups of wandering youths with their dark clothing, heavy boots and dogs, and I was surprised to hear one remarking to his fellow traveller in a very cultured voice “in my opinion, the thoughts of Chairman Mao….” I didn’t hear the rest of his views as we moved on, but I found myself wondering quite what niche these youngsters will occupy in society in ten years time. Visions of “Blade Runner” ran through my mind, but no sign of Harrison Ford taking charge just yet.

The recent rain has done the garden the world of good. All the courgette plants are filled with large yellow flowers and the baby spinach starts to look highly edible. I pulled up a reasonably large radish this morning and found a fat ant trying to cling to it. I am going to have another serious word with them, if only to force a confession about where my onions are. Not a single seed has come up, and if I catch an ant with bad breath, he is for the high jump.
We are just about to go and fetch our new car – well, new to us that is. Because it is almost identical to the car that she owned in Miami, and because we try and park in the shade just like she did, I have the feeling that the car will earn the name “Sybil” in fond memory of a very dear friend whom we miss, but who has promised to come and visit en route from Paris to Morocco – as you do!

If I Only Had Thyme - Friday 5th Sept.

2008-09-05T07:44:00.000-07:00

The steep streets of Teyran - one of our local villages

This is probably not the sort of opening sentence that my English readers wish to see, (or my hurricane hassled friends in Florida), but we fell asleep last night to the wonderful sound of rain cascading down into the courtyard. It is desperately needed and we have only seen a couple of showers since we arrived back in mid July, and I could just about hear the vegetables growing.

We had been over to visit Priscilla and celebrated her 21st birthday. I watched as she cuddled her new son and said that he must have been the best birthday present ever. She heartily agreed and dropped yet another kiss onto the top of his brush cut hairdo. His Dad came in having stopped off for a short back and sides, and we all laughed because his two week old son now had more hair than he did.

Their house is quite extraordinary. The kitchen and living area were once part of what must have been cellars. Solid stone walls and ancient beams curve in an arched ceiling and the soft lighting reflects off the sandstone colours to create a peaceful setting for the little family. Priscilla handles her baby like a potter moulding clay and her calm unruffled approach to motherhood is producing a little one who quickly curls up and goes to sleep once he has had his fill. The upper level of the house boasts a small balcony and the interior is as modern as the structure is old. We wish them great happiness and I was glad to see that Sapho the Boxer dog had a nice courtyard to romp around in.

We drove home, quickly sorted out the emails and then went outside to watch the amazing light show that was being put on. Almost constant sheet lightening threw the old trees and our neat irrigated vegetable rows into a psychedelic blaze and the rumbles of thunder began to boom and crack overhead. Although there was no sign of fork lightening, we decided that it might be best to enjoy the show from inside the house, and my last waking moments were spent wishing that I had opened the compost bin lid so that the recently added heap of horse manure could have a good soaking. Of such thoughts dreams are made!

It is now 10.30 in the morning and the sun is making every effort to pierce through the intermittent cloud. Jean assures me that we will be awash with mushrooms if the heat can get onto the soil, so I am prowling the garden looking for any signs. I suppose this will mean another flurry of snails as well, but they are perfectly safe as far as I and my frying pan are concerned.

We have heard that we can collect the new car tomorrow midday which is exciting, but we can’t drive it until we have got the insurance sorted out – which is not! This means that next week we will have both the new car and our shipment arriving. Definitely a week to look forward to.

Tonight we are going to nip into Montpellier and see “Mama Mia”. Thanks to the excellent Anglo Languedoc website, we know which films are being shown in the original English soundtrack and I have been longing to see this one. I spent many years astride my horse, ranging through the Lesotho mountains singing various hits from ABBA at the top of my voice and any film starring Meryl Streep, Pierce Brosnan and Colin Firth will always get my attention.

We had a lucky break this afternoon. We spent part of the morning clearing the garage to make space for all the boxes arriving next week, and rather mourned the loss of the wheelbarrow which has been returned to Michelle. We happened to be at the Le Clerc building section this afternoon looking for fixtures and fittings for the garden hose system, and almost fell over a final offer on wheelbarrows at the princely sum of 12.40 euros. They were also just about giving away the last of their garden plants and I scooped up a nice variegated ground cover and a little pot of thyme. We had pinched some from the countryside but I don’t think it is happy being domesticated, so in time, this thyme will be just in time to be added to our roast leg of lamb on a spit. And on that happy note, we are off to the movies!

Celebrations All Round - Thursday 4th Sept.

2008-09-04T06:56:00.000-07:00

The old barbeque area minus the woodpile, the wheelbarrow and the trailer

We’ve noticed since we arrived that whereas the sun was shining on the garage wall around 7.15, encouraging us to leap out of bed and get the day going, it is now lurking around up in the tree tops until after 8am, and if we hang around now to be able to say “the sun is on the wall”, we are going to be still abed by 8.30 at this rate. There wasn’t much sun to be had when the day started, and in fact, that delicious sound of rain spattering lightly on the trees in the courtyard made it highly tempting to curl up and snooze for a bit longer. However, I had emails to check and coffee to make.

I had become so frustrated with the endless wait for our shipment from Miami, that I had stirred the pot a bit yesterday. I remembered that my brother had a pal who was a rather well known name in the International removals business and I threw myself on his mercy and asked if he had any ideas as to how we could get the log jam shifted. He was sympathetic, but clearly we had agreed (albeit unknowingly) to accept that our goods would appear on the first available transport, but not having seen hide nor hair of them since mid June, I was getting separation anxiety and just needed some answers.

This morning, we did that most thankless, but nevertheless satisfying job of cleaning the house. Housework is something that I came to late in life thanks to being spoiled with the services of two wonderful housemaids in Africa, and it isn’t something that I race to do, but thanks to Jean who is far more keen, we halve the job and have it done in no time.

Of course there is no point in having a gleaming house when you have a terrace and courtyard cluttered with leaves, and that also had to be dealt with, so by the time we had eaten lunch, it was definitely time for what Jean likes to call “a foot up”.

No sooner had we awoken from our afternoon siesta than the phone rang, and we heard those wonderful words; “Your shipment will be arriving on Friday September 12th”. She assured us that the whole lot was coming at the same time, but she slightly unnerved us by saying that the shipment would be delivered in an 18 metre truck. We paced out the length of the house frontage and that was about sixteen metres, so I hope the driver knows what he’s at because the next place he can turn around is about fifteen miles away. The lady assured me that the drivers had special gizmos that told them which villages they could get through, so it just remains for us to alert the local constabulary so that they can control the traffic flow past the house.

I just love to think of our treasured water colour paintings from Africa going up on the walls; my beloved books filling the shelves, and our family photos standing atop the old bread chest. My worldwide collection of fridge magnets will be back in their rightful place along with all our general bits and pieces. We have very little of any great value, but it represents years of travelling, living in different countries and home making as we went along.

At last I can make up the bed properly, and sleep between crisp Egyptian cotton sheets and have the white embroidered French duvet cover draping to the floor. My crockery and cutlery, my beloved bits of Kolonyama pottery from Lesotho will all be unpacked along with our sets of matching glasses and kitchen utensils. The beautiful crystal vase that my son and his wife bought me for my 50th birthday soon after I had left Africa, with the words “This is to help you to start making a new home Mum” will be filled with celebratory flowers. The large ceiling to floor bedroom cupboards will be filled with our clothing, winter coats and duvets, and the boxes of old photo albums that I kept when my daughter made me promise not to throw them out, will once again take up space, but never be disposed of.

Jean has the remains of his valuable collection of West African tribal artefacts to store, and now that we have a large old mantelpiece over what was once the fireplace, we have an excellent spot to display things.
I feel like Scarlett O’Hara putting my hand on my heart and declaring “For as long as I live, I swear I will never pack this lot up and move again”. Of course there might be a move to another house in the region at some stage in the future, but I really doubt that we will leave France. I am tapping the wooden table next to me as I write this but I really do feel as though we have finally come to rest.

Today is Priscilla’s birthday and we are invited to go and see their new home, and to have a cuddle with our grandson. We haven’t seen him since he was born, and efforts to telephone have been greeted with the answering machine. Clearly the exhausted Mum and Dad are trying to catch up with a bit of sleep while the baby has his head down.
On a horticultural note, we hauled the load of horse manure over the wall last night and it has gone into the compost bin and been thoroughly watered, and now it just remains for me to stand ready with the frying pan, the sea salted butter and garlic in the hopes that mushrooms will be on the menu.

Herculean Efforts in the Potager - Wednesday 3rd Sept

2008-09-03T06:35:00.001-07:00

The garden the day we arrived

A lot of hard work and sore fingers eight weeks later on

“Ow my back hurts”
“Well my knees are aching”
“Look at the cuts on my finger”
“Well my fingers are going blue”.

We sounded like the British Olympic Team after they ran the relay race, but in fact we are the triumphant gardeners who have now laid drip irrigation throughout the entire back garden, and in this way, we can sit on the terrace as the sun goes down, sipping a nice local vintage, while the garden waters itself. I must explain that you get sore fingers from pressing in the hundreds of little sprinklers which must be pushed into the irrigation pipe. Definitely a double layer of sticking plaster job which needs a great deal of good humour, and SHOUTING DOESN"T HELP!

At least we had a break this morning when we ran out of widgets and had to go to see Leroy Merlin to re-stock. We didn't bother to get changed and we definitely looked as though we had come straight from work.

You can see from the photos what we started out with, and here we are less than eight weeks later with it all under control. I must confess that the fact that Papy had 85% of the garden buried under six inches of concrete has helped us as we certainly don’t get delayed with lawns that need mowing or paths that need weeding.

I am studying the art of container gardening and have visions of the courtyard being ablaze with multi-colours of geraniums next summer, and before that, being filled with endless pots of hyacinths and crocuses. With five hundred hyacinths to plant, I am quite sure I can get one of the little darlings to come up smelling sweetly.

Tonight we are going over the garden wall on another forage for horse pooh. We found that once we had laid all the irrigation pipe along the vegetable rows and then encircled each of the fruit trees and the four vines, that we had enough to run a couple of loops inside the big compost bin at the very back of the garden. I had explained earlier that it is a daft system whereby even if you get good compost, it is all buried at the very bottom and somewhat inaccessible. Our plan is to cover the existing compost with a good layer of soil mixed with horse pooh, keep it damp, shut the lids down and let it simmer, and see how many mushrooms we can get out of it.

Having just seen the news that the author who wrote the wonderful book “The Horse Whisperer” is terribly ill along with his whole family after they ate poisonous mushrooms while on holiday, I shall verify each one before consigning it to the frying pan, but on the whole we seem to get the Cep mushrooms which are very good. As I told you, we tried growing them on the farm under controlled circumstances, but to no avail, but we would find great rings of them out in the grazing lands, and mushroom soup was always a good winter standby.

Today is a cloudy, breezy, slightly cooler day and we even had to retreat to the terrace for lunch as it was spattering with rain. Jean says that any cloud that crosses the coastline is promptly bombarded with rockets to stop it developing, and consequently, although the weather forecasters tell you that rain is coming, clearly the guys who have the wine farmers interests at heart can change all that.

On a technical note, I have been receiving some rather frustrated emails from people who have wanted to put comments onto the Blog but who battle to find their way through the process. It seems as though the best route is to put them on under Anonymous. Sadly I don’t get to know who is writing, but I do enjoy reading them. If anyone would like to contact me directly, you can email me at cmfagalde@yahoo.co.uk.

Several people have asked about the book that I wrote entitled “Lambs Love and Laughter” which was the account of the seven years that Jean and I spent re-building the derelict farm in South Africa. This can be found on http://lambsloveandlaughter.blogspot.com/
If you read this, you will see how we come to be so handy with a pair of pliers, a hammer and a length of string!

Another route to some of my writing can be found on my website at http://www.fagalde.co.uk/
Here you can access the account of our five years in Florida entitled “Midhurst to Miami”, and there are a number of photos of the farm, plus links to the various books that I have written.

We were sitting in the Bank Mangers office the other day and he was leafing through my passport while waiting for his computer to spit out some information, and I could see his eyes becoming wider as he saw names like Benin, Chile, Mauritius, Australia, Canada, USA, England, France, South Africa, Senegal, Panama, Portugal, Peru and Ecuador. In retrospect, I really am rather glad that I can now sit on our terrace in southern France and not have to pack my suitcases for quite a while (unless you count my upcoming ten euro trip to England!)

Grand Theft Poubelle - Tuesday 2nd Sept

2008-09-02T07:41:00.000-07:00

Looking down on to village Tabac - newspapers, cigs and social centre

The view from the Mairie balcony

We walked up to the Mairie this morning in order the make enquiries regarding the swapping of our American driving licences for French ones. Apparently a great deal of the urban paperwork has devolved onto the local council offices, so instead of having to get the early tram into Montpellier and present ourselves at the Prefecture at some ungodly hour, we can merely toddle up the road and get it all sorted.

The Mairie is situated in the heart of the village and is a fairly imposing building by village standards. When we arrived on the 14th July, the flag was waving bravely from the flag pole attached to the upper balcony, but today there were only the nodding heads of the petunias which are still in flower waving in welcome.

In order to reach the office where all the business of the day is undertaken, the first thing that the general public has to do is to make an assault on the steep stone staircase which leads up to the first floor (or second floor if you are one of my American readers). Huffing and puffing and making use of the decorative cast iron banisters, we arrived in the main office to find that there was a great to-do going on. Two concerned lady citizens were leaning over the desk imparting news of great seriousness and a young bespectacled man was talking urgently into a phone and making copious notes as he did so. A member of the local constabulary walked in carrying an armful of files and there was an air of determination and disbelief.

“What gives?” I asked Jean, pretty sure that the ladies had come in to place a complaint that would require nothing short of the presence of the Mayor in order to sort it out.

“Somone pinched their poubelle” he whispered, and I had to turn my head and admire the view rather than allow the forbidden giggle that arose in my throat to be heard. Of course, it was Tuesday which meant that it was “smelly belly day” and we had already retrieved our freshly emptied bin and returned it to the garage. Imagine the horror of seeing the rubbish truck pass you by, and then realising that they had nothing to stop for. Did the thieves remove it before it was emptied in which case, what did they do with the contents?. Is there a law about being found in possession of other people’s empty cat food tins? Maybe they were cunning and waited until the bin had been emptied and then they struck, quickly removing the bin before the rubbish truck had rounded the bend.

I couldn’t help but recall my son-in-law’s hugely funny account of a woman who had lost her wheelie bin. “But where’s your bin?” asked a concerned friend. “No but where’s you wheelie wheelie bin”. Silly I know and you have to be there but this was no time for attempts at humour. We have a poubelle thief in our midst which means that none of us are safe. I am sorry, but Jean will have to sit up all night on Wednesday to make sure that our recycling bin isn’t carted away at midnight, and we find ourselves at the Mairie, giving our details to the bespectacled young man.

Having sorted out our paperwork with the helpful lady at the Mairie, I have high hopes that she will arrange for my American licence to be swapped for a French one. Every time I move to a new country, some bright spark decides that I need a new driving licence and this entails a test, and since my driving record has remained totally unblemished for nearly 40 years without so much as a parking ticket, I would feel very upset to lose it simply because I got confused about turning “à gauche” or “à droit”.

We then headed for the Bureau de Poste in Castries where, rather than standing in a queue, we simply popped the envelope onto the scale, tapped the computer screen and Hey Presto, out popped our stamp in return for the coins that we pushed into the slot. From there it was a quick zip round the supermarket and a whistle stop tour of the vegetable market. When we arrived, I suddenly thought I was seeing double. The last time we were there, we were served by a charming rather good looking gentleman in a burnt orange tee shirt. This time there were two of them, and I realised that the place was run by either brothers who were very similar in looks or identical twins. I made their day by telling them that I would be writing about them on my blog, so if you ever go shopping at the excellent fruit and veg market in the centre of Castries, you can assure them that they were right here in print!

Photos our our evening in Montpellier - Sunday 31st August

2008-08-31T01:47:00.000-07:00

Approaching the craft stalls down the Esplanade Charles de Gaulle

The park, early evening

All the time in the world for a game of chess

The Glass Blowers stall

Promenaders in the Place de la Comedie

The last rays of the sun catching the entrance to Polygone

"Kiss Me Hardy" - Sunday 31st September

2008-08-31T01:37:00.000-07:00

Summer stalls in the Esplanade Charles de Gaulle

I thought I’d better write this quickly just in case you don’t hear from me again. Half an hour ago, we found a really large mushroom that had popped up overnight and it looked exactly like the ones that we have in the fridge. We dutifully went onto the internet and checked out the site for identifying the good mushrooms and it seemed to pass all the tests, so we chucked it into a frying pan with some salted butter and ate it, and it was delicious. That was 20 minutes ago so if this turns out to be a very short chat today, you will know that we were last seen legging it to the Montpellier hospital!

Last night was fun and it is something that we will definitely repeat, only not until next year because it closes on the 2nd September. Running down the lower end of the Esplanade Charles de Gaulle in Montpellier are a series of little wooden houses that look like a cross between a Victorian bathing hut and a wooden rondavel.

“Nobody is going to have that many ice cream stands” I ventured when we were there on Thursday, but during our quick visit to the Tourist Information Centre right next door, we discovered that throughout the height of summer, the little houses open up and are in fact craft shops. The idea is so great because when they shut shop at 11pm, they quite literally shut shop and the shutters that lift upwards and form a roof for the customers and are then brought down and locked so that all the displays inside can be left intact.

Before embarking on a tour of the thirty or so little stands, we first did a circle of the park that is right next door, and quickly realised that this was a very different Montpellier from the one which we had been seeing during daytime and the whole pace and rhythm had slowed (if it were possible). Groups of friends sat on the grass around the lake, sharing a bottle of wine, enjoying their music and laughing together. Parents with little ones in push chairs paused to point out the ducks to their offspring, and elderly folks sat on the park benches and enjoyed the scene. I began to realise that we were definitely in the upper age bracket of the people wandering about, and as the evening progressed, it was easy to see that the youth of Montpellier are definitely in the ascendancy when it comes to the population that is out and about on a Saturday night.

We began our tour of the stands and it was good to see that a great deal of what was on offer was hand made, or at least locally produced, and there was none of the awful cheap Chinese tat anywhere. Clearly used to tourists, many of the stall holders spoke English, and were knowledgeable about their products and proud of what they were selling.

One of my favourite stalls was run by a delightful young lady who had two sides to her business. On the one hand she sold good quality tee shirts with excellent designs on them, and the rest of her stand was taken up by a series of incredibly frustrating wooden puzzles. There was an Australian guy with his girlfriend who had apparently arrived when the stall opened and he wasn’t planning to leave until he could solve the problem. Eventually the stall owner was just about begging him to have a look at the solution and his girlfriend was dragging at his arm, but this was one Australian who wasn’t going to be beaten. As we reached the last stall, I looked back and there he was, still battling for the solution and nearly short of a girlfriend who was by now sitting on a nearby wall sulking. Nobody can say that the Aussies are short of tenacity.

All the time we strolled and looked, I could hear the gentle strains of some really nice music drifting down from the trees, and realised that speakers had been strung the length of the park, and far from being the usual wall-paper music, they were playing some excellent ballads. Nothing was intrusive and yet it formed a lovely background sound to the hum of the general public.

From the Esplanade, it was merely a matter of twenty paces and we were into the Place de la Comédie . Again, this was a very different Place from the one where we had sat and sipped our early morning cup of coffee two days back. Everywhere there were people strolling, people sitting at the cafés ordering their early suppers and people taking photos of other people who draped themselves around the base of the famous fountain of the Three Graces behind which stands the Opera.

That most French of sounds, the accordion was being played by an elderly man who had set up camp in the centre of the Place, and as the last rays of the sun slid away from the top of the Hotel du Midi, the lights of the ancient manège or merry go round, began to shine more brightly.

Montpellier was coming to life under its night time guise, and the young people poured into the Place and wandered into the side streets. There was no shouting or a feeling that they owned the streets but rather a more vibrant atmosphere began to fill the place. Pretty girls in low backed dresses and high heels managed to navigate the cobbled stones of the old alleyways, and the young men, clad almost to a man in tee shirt and jeans, laughed and joked with each other, and delivered the traditional three kisses to any young lady that they recognised.

We sank gratefully into chairs in one of the smaller squares and ordered a quarter pichet of white wine and allowed our somewhat stiff hips to have a rest. Why is it that if you are walking briskly for three miles on the flat, you can keep going, but a short wander of stop-start, uphill and back down again walking can quickly reduce you to exhaustion. The accordion player had caught up with us and he provided the most perfect backdrop of sound to the surrounding brasseries which serve light refreshments and the open air restaurants which go for the more serious cuisine.

Just a quarter of a pichet of wine earns you the right to sit for as long as you like and watch the other people watchers. A group of small children were dancing in a circle in the middle of the square, the little girls trying to convince two very small boys that it would be fun to join in. The boys were having none of it and ducked and dodged rather than be caught as “piggy in the middle”, and it wasn’t hard to imagine the same children playing the same games to the same music a hundred years back.

We finished our drinks and made a concerted effort to explore further into the narrow lanes, but whereas I felt perfectly safe where there were lights and people, I found it slightly disconcerting to venture into the darker alleyways where we had walked so happily during the daytime, and so we returned to the bright lights and eventually made our way back down to the Place de la Comedie.

Walking back through the Esplanade towards Corum, we became aware that there was another group of young people now on the move. Darkly dressed in semi-military fashion, they moved in groups with any number of big rangy dogs at heel. There was nothing confrontational about them, but I had the feeling that it was time for us to leave the city to its youth, be it the sparkling young girls and lads or the heavy booted dog owners. My hips had finally won the battle and we sank onto the seats of the tram and let the driver take us safely back to Sabblasou.

The pichet of wine must have been even better than I thought because having driven the little Golf since we arrived with no problem at all, when we got to the car park, I discovered that while we had been in Montpellier, someone had stolen the reverse gear; it just wasn’t where I had left it. All we need at this stage is a car with a broken gearbox, and so when we got back home, Jean went out and had a look and came back and reported that reverse was in exactly the place where it should be. He then pointed firmly towards the bedroom and wished me a very good night, which is just what I had.

It has just occurred to me that having written this much, we are clearly not going to fall into the hands of the stomach pump operators, and with it looking as though it might rain today, I shall have the frying pan ready. Montpellier (as I might have mentioned) boasts an average of 300 days sunshine a year, but today isn’t one of them. I just hope it perks up for the picnic tomorrow.

God Bless Grandma Saturday 30th August

2008-08-30T07:48:00.000-07:00

A little clue about where we are headed this evening!

I have a stalwart friend who lives in South Africa and I have known her for what seems like forever. Elaine is the sort of person who lives quietly in a very small town in the Free State, but who keeps all sorts of useful hints and tips tucked away up her sleeve, ready for use at a moment’s notice. For many years she has been a patient reader of my books and blogs and it is comforting to know that she manages to keep track of us despite our varied twists and turns in life.

She has just sent me a message to say that she found that Sunlight Dishwashing liquid sprayed lightly around the ant holes sent them scurrying far away. She assured me that it would neither kill the plants nor the ants, but they wouldn’t hang around anywhere near it. I wish I could develop the idea so that in the end the beans picked themselves, cooked themselves and the pots were all clean and shiny at the end due to the early application of the washing up liquid!
Another clever idea that her grandmother swore by was keeping a block of dried soap tucked away in her underwear drawer. Apart from making her “smalls” smell fresh and nice, it had an adverse effect on the bugs and beasties that like to hide away in the dark, so I think I might give that a whirl as well. If all else fails, she suggests that along with putting a pea under the mattress, I might try a dried bar of soap as well. Thanks Elaine – I shall put all these suggestions into effect and will report back on the results.

It occurred to me that many of my readers might have similar ideas or queries about the content of the blog, and I have tweaked the “comment” ability, and thanks to my daughter Claire in far away Australia, I have realised that I had it closed before. Technology comes slowly to someone who used to have a phone nailed to the farmhouse kitchen wall with a handle on it, and eight other people on the party line! There’s no point in sending me adverts for little blue pills, ways to make instant money, or expensive implements for the garden, because I have no time to read them and no money to spend on them, but anything to do with our lives here or your own experiences would be a pleasure to read.

In view of the busy time that we have ahead of us, I stole a march on the cooking this morning in preparation for Mamy’s birthday party in mid October. I have a fixed menu for such functions which I think my children could quote by heart, but at least everything is ready for the great day and all the slicing and dicing, washing up and cleaning is already done. It was so great to be able to have the red peppers sizzling on the barbeque, and I must confess that I was sorely tempted to use some of the mushrooms which have begun springing up all over the garden. Isn’t it amazing; when we were farming, we went to great effort and expense to try and start growing mushrooms, importing the right spores, bringing in a load of old horse manure and keeping the humidity and temperature correct. Not a single mushroom. Here we drag a black bin bag full of old horse pooh over the wall from the field next door, and suddenly the garden is alive with the things. Just as soon as I confirm that they are the real deal, I shall begin using them, but I would hate to poison the guests at our first party.

In another couple of hours, we are going to head off to Montpellier for the evening and tomorrow

I will report back on the festivities which take place, so until then, you will have to contain your curiosity. Suffice it to say that it looks like a lot of fun!

Beware of Geeks Bearing Figs - Friday 29th August

2008-08-29T09:59:00.000-07:00

The first fruits of our labours - ten beans, but they are our beans!

Our fig tree which has done so well despite being ignored for so long

The fig tree in the garden is now laden with ripening fruit and although we manage to eat a fair number ourselves, and have delivered a basket full to Mamy, we thought that perhaps our neighbour Nathalie who lives opposite would like some for her family.

Switching off our computers and making some sort of effort to tidy ourselves up, we went and rang the bell on their large electric gate, and Nathalie appeared, pleased to see us and very happy with the figs.

We have invited them all to come over and say hello to Mamy and join us for birthday cake in mid October, and having got the niceties over, we got around to bewailing the speed at which traffic whizzes up our section of the road. It is a total mystery as to why the entire village has a speed restriction of 30 kms on either side of our stretch, but some idiot who was probably in a hurry to get to his lunch and who couldn’t find a 30 sign, went and stuck up a 45 sign instead. Despite a petition to the Mayor, it is one of those situations where it has now been decreed by some distant traffic board that whatever is here now stays.

What we actually need is a speed hump about three feet high, and there are days when the prospect of a little piano wire wouldn’t go amiss.

I fail to understand that in a country where everyone is trying to do so much to avoid air pollution and rubbish pollution, that the wretched makers of small motor cycles aren’t forbidden to build bikes that sound like irate hornets and have a decibel level which can splinter glass. Isn’t noise pollution something that we are all supposed to be aware of?

I have absolutely no beef with the tractors and trailers that rumble past, and the reasonable speed of the large contingent of commuters who need to get through to the next lot of villages, but why oh why do we have to put up with the screech of these everlasting buzz bikes.
OK Moaning session over so you can relax, but if you know anyone who knows someone, please drop them a line.

Another thing that we needed to ask Nathalie was whether it would be OK for the truck carrying our much longed-for possessions to park on her pavement while they offload. She kindly said that it was no problem, and went on to say that when their furniture lorry arrived, she actually had to walk up the road and flag down the traffic to stop them from hurtling around the bend and straight into her three piece suite.

We walked up to the Tabac this morning and bought a Daily Telegraph and put up a small notice to see if there are any other Brits in the village. It would be nice to make contact with a few other folks around, so hopefully there will be a few calls. I know we are not cast adrift in some far off ex colony, but it is nice to know that there are a few people around who understand cricket, even if I don’t.

I had a good look around the Tabac while Jean was getting some Photostats done for our driving licence applications. The little shop really does just about sell only tobacco products if you don’t count the huge array of magazines and a fair number of rather suspect looking cheap sweets. Apparently there used to be a rather nice little supermarket in the village, but the lure of the big shops down at Lattes proved too much for the villagers, and having taken their custom elsewhere, they then realised that the convenience of having a shop on hand for the last minute odds and ends was now over, and I think everyone mourns its loss.

There is a rather curious shop which is situated right next to the Tabac but we have never seen it open, although the other day, the metal shutters were up but due to a large truck parked in front, I couldn’t see what was going on inside. We will have to creep up on it in an unsuspecting moment and see what is for sale. I have the feeling that it is something like a combination of wine and gas! I suppose that technically both could be classed as fuel so maybe he gets a licence for selling both!

We called in at the boulangerie and what in England would be described as a queue was a cheerful gathering of people exchanging niceties and news while the lady behind the counter managed to get their orders for “deux baguettes et deux croissants s’il vous plait” and get the change right without interrupting the conversation or getting the order of service wrong.

Everyone arriving calls out “Bonjour Monsieur, Madame” to the general public, and those who have been served and who are departing never fail to throw “Au revoir, bonne journée” over their shoulder. I found my attention being drawn to the glass counter which houses the most divine hand made delicacies. Tiny cakes beautifully iced and decorated with different fruits nestled in their little white paper cups, my all time favourite mille feuilles called out to me but I had to harden my heart, and there was the last palmier looking so lonely, just begging me to buy it.

“Une flûte” asked Jean of the lady, pointing to the thicker slightly shorter version of the baguette, and I had to tear myself away and follow him out of the shop, only just remembering my “Au revoir - merci” as I went.

We are just about to go out into the garden and plant the four celery plants which we bought in the Castries market this morning. The car park had suddenly filled up with trucks selling meat, cheese, olives and plants, and we are feeling so pleased with our initial harvest of beans that we are now moving into the big time.

There may be a special outing on the cards for tomorrow evening but I am waiting to see if we go and then I will tell you all about it. Bonsoir!

Photos of another great morning in Montpellier - 28th August

2008-08-28T11:52:00.000-07:00

A closer look at that headless art. I suppose it's fairly 'armless. OK That's enough.

La Prefecture - even the police in Montpellier do it in style!

Jardin des Plantes - a sneak peek over the wall but we will return

The entrance to the University of Medicine - founded 1220 and world famous

Jean checking his watch against the sundial on the University wall - It's just about right!

Walking up the hill from the University of Medicine. This is where we were glad that we didn't have bikes.

The view down the hill to the University of Medicine with a thoughtfully placed restaurant halfway up!

The choice was amazing and I doubt the restaurant seated more than 20 people.

Time to go home for lunch!

Burning Shoe Leather - Thursday 28th August

2008-08-28T09:16:00.000-07:00

The steep street leading up from the University of Medicine

I trust that you appreciate the effort that we are making to bring you some wonderful photographs of Montpellier. We could have sat home this morning, toiling over our computers, but in the interests of the reading public, we forced ourselves to catch the tram and go into the city once more. It's such a tough assignment!

In case we had to walk further than we had planned, we disembarked at Corum which is the huge brown edifice which houses the Berlioz Opera, and instead of walking up the three flights of steps, we joined a lady with a suitcase and another who was slightly pregnant , and ascended in the small lift. Lazy I know but on your behalf, we wanted to achieve our programme.

The Esplanade Charles de Gaulle makes for the most pleasant approach to the Place de la Comedie, and we strolled under the trees that line each side, realising that nobody seemed to be in any sort of hurry. There was no queue at the Musée Fabre and the Tourist Information centre was quiet. Lovers sat on benches discussing previous assignations and planning future ones; a couple of youngsters strummed on their guitars but were minus the usual begging cup and a thin dog. Children dabbled their fingers in the fountains and the waiters began issuing cups of coffee to their regulars, moving slowly at this stage in the certain knowledge that nobody was in a rush to do anything.

We were a bit early for our appointment at the bank, so we sat outside our favourite brasserie and sipped the tiny cup of strong coffee and watched to see if anyone seemed to be late for work. A few late-season tourists took the obligatory photos of the Opera and of each other, but I noted a definite lack of Japanese who never take their eye from the viewfinder. A few couples sat with hands linked across the table as their coffee and croissants went unnoticed; nobody wore a suit and tie, and even the secretaries who were headed for the office flaunted summer suntans and laughed with their friends. Montpellier doesn’t believe in starting early that’s for sure. I imagine that in three weeks time, all the students will be back at University and the pace will pick up, but for now, the city is chilling out after the tourist season and enjoying the lazy late days of summer.

The man in the bank was far happier to see us this morning. His cold had improved and he saw my South African tee shirt and informed us proudly that he was the man to whom the famous Montpellier rugby team came to do their banking since he had a grasp of English. I didn’t get to hear much of it, but he set about the business of applying for a bank card for me. To be honest, I think it took less time to take out Lesotho Citizenship, but the good news is that I will be receiving my Carte Blue in no time at all.

The banking business done, our aim was the Jardin des Plantes, but first we had to call in at the Prefecture in the centre of old Montpellier in order to exchange our American driving licences for French ones. I mentioned to Jean that I hoped it would be a direct swap, because if there was any written test in French, I would be a gonner. He rather unkindly suggested that if there was any driving test, I might be out of luck as well, but I kicked him under the table to help him change his mind. The reason we had a table was that we had paused for the most delicious palmier from a boulangerie which just happened to block our path. This crisp multi-layered sugar-dusted heart shaped confection was just what I needed to continue my journalistic enterprise on your behalf and if you ever see one, don’t hesitate to purchase it. (I feel it is important to give you a flavour of the region as much as possible, and so I asked Jean if he would like to comment on the fougasse that he was devouring at a rate of knots, but all I could get out of him was a grunt of satisfaction and a lot of crumbs).

The Prefecture was knee deep in people who had been there since 8.30 so we took the forms and retreated. The day was far too nice to be sitting on long wooden benches waiting for a number to be called, so we moved on up the Rue Foch, passing the triumphal archway and the Palais de Justice and came out at the Place Royal du Peyrou. This is a very scenic spot with wonderful views to the outskirts of the city, but not a place to be when it is windy as the entire surface is made of fine dust and it can very quickly look like a scene from Lawrence of Arabia if the breeze kicks up.

Only a short walk down the hill brought us to the Jardin des Plantes founded back in 1593 but sadly it was only opening in another hour and since we had a very good view of quite a bit of it over the wall, I took some photos and we doubled back and dived into the narrow streets leading to the University of Medicine. Founded back in 1220, it was suppressed during the French Revolution but re-established in 1799. Just to make sure, Jean checked the time against the old sundial and it was only an hour out thanks to the implementation of Summer Time, and we marvelled at the age of the structure. This had been built before leeches were even in fashion, that’s for sure.

We had toyed with the idea of renting bikes to find our way around Montpellier, but when we saw the steep streets rising from the University back into the centre of town, we were pretty pleased that we only had ourselves to lug up the hill without pushing a bike as well.

With time completely on our side and our feet holding out well, we turned this way and that, exploring narrow streets that led into hidden squares where small fountains tinkled and shady trees gave protection to little outdoor restaurants. An ancient building on our right had been the old Montpellier hospital and I would give you the street name except I see from the city map that it changes no less than eight times as it winds around the old quarter.

Turning a corner, we were suddenly back in the 21st Century and only a short walk to Corum where we happily climbed aboard the tram and headed back home, stopping at Leroy Merlin en route so that we could get the last bits and pieces to extend the drip irrigation. Now you’re gonna’ see spinach grow!

Photos of the Magimix and Montpellier - 27th August

2008-08-27T11:44:00.000-07:00

Jean making another row for spinach seeds against his better judgement

Earning my day off in the city sans rubber gloves!

Our favourite coffee stop when we get to town - Place de la Comedie

The view up the Esplanade Charles de Gaulle towards Corum

Look carefully up under the tree and you'll see the Pathe Rooster

The Old Pathe Cinema

The Musee Fabre (my apologies for having no accents)

Charming garden apartments along the Esplanade Charles de Gaulle

Look closely - I warned you about the headless public art!

My apologies -the tram photos are repeated on the following page of photos. Blame it on over-enthusiasm on my part!

Just 2 Euros to park for free way outside Montpellier, and then travel all over the city on either of the two tram lines. Now that's a bargain.

The interior of the tram on the number 2 line - Jacou to St Jean de Vedas

The Montpellier trams crossing at Sabblasou on the road of grass

Blogging through France Magazine - 27th August

2008-08-27T06:35:00.001-07:00

The Montpellier Tram travelling along the roadway of grass

The interior of the Montpellier tram Route 2

I was delighted yesterday when I not only discovered the fabulous France Magazine, but was invited to place my Diary blog onto their site. For those of you who have been reading the blog via the usual method of me sticking it under your noses on a daily basis, have yourselves a real treat and access it through:

http://www.francemag.com/forum,-blogs-and-gallery-france-blogs-diary-of-a-french-housewife--79433

Apart from catching up on our news, you can feast your eyes on some of the wonders of France, and if you are like me, desperately trying to get my schoolgirl French back up to speed, there is also the excellent French Corner

http://www.thefrenchcorner.net/2008/08/how-french-see-it.html

Yesterday, instead of our evening walk, we decided that in view of the fact that the rotovator has to be returned, we had better get in one more row for excess spinach plants. Jean always looks a little disinterested when I mention spinach, but then I remind him of the delicious spinach, feta, mushroom and bacon mini quiche that I used to make on the farm which sold like hot cakes in the farm shop in town. I would never presume to present my baking skills to the general public in France however; it would be a bit like emailing Shakespeare and giving him a few hints and tips. However, with the birthday party for Mamy coming up, I think I shall have to dust off my culinary skills and get the deep freeze stocked with some delicacies.

But back to the potager. Nobody can say that I don't know my place, and sitting on a very low stool in the centre of the "magimix" circular bed, I crushed hard lumps of very old horse manure into a powder and mixed them with good soil and pushed them through a seive. Glamorous it may not be, but it makes for a really good starting soil for the seeds. In answer to those friends of mine who used to agonise about my lack of make-up and my habit of wearing flip flops all the time, Yes I did use rubber gloves!

Following the depradations of the ants the other day, I planted another row of seeds alongside the old spinach seeds, and was rather startled to find a series of little holes the next day. If I catch just one ant carrying one spinach seed it is total war! Forget "Shock and Awe", I shall be there with my ant powder, dishing it out in spoonfuls around every possible exit hole until I have defended the last seedling.

Having worked so hard last night, we gave ourselves the morning off and went into Montpellier to visit the bank. With the sky a peerless blue and the lightest of breezes blowing through the Place de la Comedie, there can be no nicer place to be on a late summers day. The crowds seem to have vanished and apart from the little market at one end of Comedie, and the other down the centre of Antigone, there was not much activity apart from the waiters delivering endless cups of coffee and crispy croissants to their patrons.

We stopped in at the book shop just near the entrance of Polygone, and found a reasonably large English section, but having seen the prices, I decided that the Emile Zola central library would probably have an equally good selection at a far reduced rate i.e. free! It was worth the walk down through Antigone, and we paused and watched a young labrador dog playing tag with the fountains which are there one minute and gone the next. Nobody seems to be in any hurry and there is always time to watch a child shriek in delight as he runs forward onto the seemingly flat surface and then rushes back to his mother as another jet of water threatens to soak him.

It was that time of day when the last of the morning coffee drinkers were folding up their newspapers and the waiters were starting to set out the tables with their snowy white cloths in anticipation of lunch. The boards were already out displaying the host of choices available, and anything as mundane as fish and chips or sausage and mash were outnumbered by lists of omelettes, salads, hot dishes and colds ones.

The English section at Emile Zola proved well worth a visit. Once inside the library, you take the elevator (lift for my English readers) to the first floor and work your way right to the left hand end. At first I thought it was all studious reference books, but then I turned a corner and found a veritable treasure trove of books that I was wanting to read. The only slight draw back is that anything taken out from this library has to be returned there and not to another branch, so that means another trip to Montpellier. Oh dear, what hardship.

We actually have to return tomorrow to see the bank. All Jean wants is a bank card for me, but this seems to involve a great deal of paperwork, appointments and sitting in a rather small office with a Frenchman who is currently suffering from a very runny nose. I do hope that he is feeling better before we meet again tomorrow! We are thinking of including a visit to the Jardin des Plantes and if the weather continues to hold (which the pundits assure us it will) I shall have some nice photos for you.

We stopped off en route to the tram station to have another look at that Peugeot. The only slight worry is that it is ten years old and only has 20,000 on the clock and there are no identification marks as to what model it is on the back of the boot. This makes us rather wary that it has either had the odometer moved around or else it has been in a nasty crash at some stage. The price is good but maybe this gift horse really does need to be looked in the mouth so we aren't going to rush it.

Meantime, we have found a very nice Citroen Xantia with a lot more on the clock, but in excellent condition and a thousand euros less. It belongs to a mechanic who lives just behind us so it isn't worth his while selling us trouble because we will blow the hooter early every morning and wake him up!

We did as promised and got off the tram at Corum this morning and then walked through the Esplanade Charles de Gaulle, passing the Musee Fabre and the building which used to house the Pathe Cinema. I'll put up some photos for you on the next blog page - Enjoy!

Shopping for Wheels Tuesday 26th August

2008-08-26T08:53:00.000-07:00

The Castries Fruit and Vegetable market (and wine and pizza!)

The best sort of fuel pumps!

Wow, it’s hot. Nearly as hot as it was back in July when we arrived, and we heard from Michelle when she nipped in today that her canoe business is still going strong despite the fact that most of the holiday makers are supposed to have left. Either there are a lot of Doctors letters being issued or else the locals have woken up to the fact that they have a really nice opportunity to explore their own area rather than pay petrol expenses and head off somewhere else.

“Staycation” was the buzz word being bandied about in the States when we were there and more and more people were investigating their own locality, so I guess that a lot of people are doing it here as well.

We stayed home this morning and worked on our computers but then rewarded ourselves with a quick trip to the municipal tip. You see how little it takes to make us happy! The trailer was fully laden with the remnants of the overgrown oleander bush that blocked the centre of the courtyard, along with some dried drooping boughs that were a little too close to the top of the old barbeque for our liking. We are getting along so well with the gas barbeque that I doubt we would bother to fire up the old wood one, but I would hate to give the pompiers a reason for tearing down the road and dousing us with water.

We are starting to look for our own car, and we called into the local garage to enquire if he had anything much for sale. Jean has the wise theory that it is always best to buy close to home in case you have to phone the guy up on a cold winter’s morning and tell him to come round and start the wretched thing if it has gone on the fritz. They told us about one possibility that we will take a look at tomorrow, and then we nipped down to Castries to have a look at the offerings at the second hand car mart. There is a rather nifty Peugeot which has rather taken our fancy, and the salesman took a great shine to us. Although he spoke extremely fast, from what I could make out, he had been living very happily in Montreal until his family had dragged him back to France. He raved about things like ice fishing, tobogganing and skiing and insisted that the sun shone endlessly throughout the winter months. I mentioned that my brother and his family lived in Toronto, but he swept that aside with the single word “English”.

We’ll go back and have another look at the car once we have a comparison, and meantime, tomorrow we are off to Montpellier to go to the bank. I feel as though I should nip in and see the guys in the internet café but they might be so disappointed when they realise that their milk cow is no longer producing, that it’s probably best to stay away.

This time I want to go and investigate the big book shop at Polygone which I understand has a very good English section, and the Montpellier library also has one, so that might be worth investigating. At least our local library is open again, but their computer system was down when we called in today, so you could look but you couldn’t take anything out. Now there’s frustration for you! I did have a nice chat with the charming young librarian who speaks such good English, and discovered that his mother was American which explained his rather interesting accent.

If the weather is as good as this tomorrow, I can see us getting off the tram at Corum and walking through the park to Place de la Comédie. I wonder if that little restaurant in Antigone is making Croque Monsieur?

As promised, we went back to the vegetable market with the wine pumps at the back and I hope you enjoy the photos. Come and see it some time and bring your own bottles!

Shopping With A Difference - Monday 25th August

2008-08-25T07:27:00.000-07:00

The hill village of Corconne

The problem with having the internet working is that I am starting to sit for hours with the result that when I do get around to standing up, my bottom feels as though it has spread to cover the base of the reclining garden chair and my neck and shoulders are stiffening up from lack of exercise.

To think that four weeks ago we were desperate to get connected but in the meantime we were chopping, digging, painting and generally working hard, and now we have to call a halt long enough to ensure that the garden gets watered. I know that in time we will have caught up and then we can relax a bit and start to plot our day so that it also includes a bit of fun.

Speaking of fun, we have just nipped into Castries to buy some groceries and this time, we were determined to get our fresh fruit and vegetables from the open air market in the centre of town. This place of business has changed hands a few times since Jean used to stay here, and he can recall it being a petrol station, a winery and now the fruit and veg market. We had finished purchasing all our requirements and Jean had to go with the proprietor to the back to use the credit card machine. He came back looking rather pleased with himself.

“The old wine pumps are still there in the back” he announced. “I have no idea if they are still operating them but it all looks quite promising.

We nipped round to the supermarket to purchase the more mundane items like washing up liquid and breakfast cereal and then returned to the mystery wine pumps.

“Bonjour Monsieur, Madam” came a cheery greeting from a very suavely dressed gentleman who clearly ran this side of the operation.

Jean enquired about the pumps and to our delight, the owner not only assured us that they were working fine, but he raised a curtain to display a mound of empty 1 litre water bottles.

‘You fill as many as you like” he said, and like a pump jockey in America, he proceeded to squeeze the pump handle and fill up the bottle with a nice house rosé.

“That will be 2 euros 40c he said” and deposited the plastic water bottle into a plastic bag lest I should have to suffer the embarrassment of coming out of the wine shop with my bottle exposed to public view. It takes a lot more than that to embarrass me, as many of my friends and family will assure you, and tomorrow, we will return so that I can take some photographs. I might even take some of our small water bottles so that I can test drive some of the other vintages. It’s by far the best looking set of fuel pumps I have ever seen and I feel sure that if gas prices in America were the same, the world would be a far happier place.

We drove home the “scenic route” and stopped off to see what the advertising boards for “Aqua Fit” were all about. Sadly our search resulted in finding a very small indoor pool that was obviously designed for people to jump up and down in but not for swimming lengths. Having been incredibly spoiled at our condominium in Florida with a large pool which I made great use of, this certainly wasn’t going to cater to my needs.

We trundled slowly through the vineyards of St Jean de L”Arbousier, stopping to say hello to the two lovely horses which appear in one of the photos on the blog. The vines are so heavy with grapes that they are hanging down to the ground and with this heat, it must only be a matter of days before they start bringing them in.

I thought of our shopping trips in Aventura. Down 17 floors in the elevator, walk through the lobby trying to avoid the endlessly complaining occupants, collect the car from the car park, drive around Country Club Drive, straight to Publix Supermarket, shop, queue, pay, load and go straight back to the air conditioned apartment. No wine pumps, no farmers offloading their fresh plums and aubergines, no Camargue horses and no vineyards. We might have had blue skies, palm trees and big swimming pools, but I definitely know where I would rather be.

Midnight Raiders Monday 25th August

2008-08-25T04:26:00.000-07:00

Pic St Loup

You bolt the garden gate, lock the front door, close all the shutters and go to bed and you’d think that you would be safe. But no. We were attacked last night and never heard a thing. I went out in my nightdress this morning in order to bid the beans “good morning”. (I firmly believe in talking to my plants even though they yawn and pretend to be busy doing something else). I then worked my way along the rows of courgettes and leeks until HORROR! There was a cabbage missing. When I say missing, the heart had gone out of it and all that remained was a little pile of limp leaves. I checked on its immediate neighbour and it was looking distinctly unhappy and I called for the Death Squad.

“Bring the ant powder” I yelled.
“What about the Buddhist monks?” came the response from the bathroom where my beloved was further along in his ablutions than I was.
“I don’t know how the system works but this lot have got it coming to them”.

Of course at that time in the morning, no self respecting ant has stirred. He is still fast asleep in his little hole digesting MY CABBAGE PLANTS. Don’t worry little ants, I have got all day and I’ll be waiting.

By lunchtime, they must have thought that I had given up, but I had stayed at my post on the terrace all morning, pretending to write my blog, but in fact I was waiting patiently. Result! By midday the little beasts were out and about, trying to look very busy moving acorn shells into holes that were too small. You don’t fool me for a moment. I had to turn away from one little fellow who was battling along with a chunk of something far bigger than he was. In went the powder and I had to leave quickly before I suffered an attack of conscience. We haven’t had our first water bill yet, but I’m blowed if we are going to be paying to keep an army of ants well fed. They can shift off next door where the summer residents have closed up shop and gone.

I’ve come to the realisation that for the past four days I haven’t suffered any mosquito bites. I think we are definitely past the bed bug stage but I was getting several nips that were annoyingly itchy. I know that I have lost weight since we turned the diet around and maybe my hips don’t present such a large scale buffet as they did before, but I put it down to the fact that we are eating a great deal more garlic. I seem to remember reading that mosquitoes don’t like garlic, and we have discovered that garlic, olive oil and herbs de provence brushed onto slices of aubergine which have been cooked on the barbeque is utterly delicious, and might be doing double duty as insect repellent. Here is another tip. I was feeling rather “garlicky” after supper last night and went and picked and ate a fresh fig (as you do) and instantly the garlic taste was gone. Our fig tree is laden with fruit at present and we were so happy to be able to take them to Mamy yesterday. I am sure she will issue them to all the care home staff, but she loved having something from her own garden.

Jean has been out checking on our vineyard this morning. OK Jean went out and looked at our four grape vines and they are coming along nicely. We had just finished doing that when a massive tractor and trailer loaded with crates went past the house closely followed by another. Clearly the farmers are in the starting blocks and the weather is so settled and gorgeous at present that this must be the final stretch until harvesting begins. The temperature is back up again today and is just touching 80F or 25C which ever you prefer. There is not a cloud in the sky and Montpellier is obviously experiencing one of its 300 days of sunshine a year.

The terribly unfortunate accident which resulted in my sister-in-law breaking her arm in several places, has put an end to their plans to fly from Canada to Europe next week and this means that my mother doesn’t get to see my older brother for a long time to come. In order to cheer her up, I went on line to see if I could find a reasonable flight up to London so that I could spend a week with her. How reasonable is this:

From Nimes to Luton Airport return (which is about 40 minutes from Mum) is costing me the princely sum of 5 euros each way with NO TAXES! OK I have to wait for the first week of October, bring along my own sandwiches, only take carry-on luggage and take pot luck on choosing a seat, but apart from that, Ryan Air are definitely the cheapest game in town. Mum is delighted and I will see some of the lovely autumn colours and catch up with a few pals, so it is definitely worthwhile. I’ll buy some marmite and be back in time for Mamy’s birthday party and then we can start to hunker down for the winter months. Once my thermal vests arrive, this thought holds no fear for me whatsoever, but then again, anyone can say that when they are sitting here on the terrace in a tee shirt and skirt, perspiring gently.

In Search of the Holy Grail - Sunday 24th August

2008-08-24T13:36:00.000-07:00

It has been a pleasant day, uneventful and yet pleasing. After a very late start, we drove up to Ledignan to enjoy Sunday lunch with Mamy and Papy at their Care Home. It’s always a pleasure to see them, and the drive makes it even more so. Winding up through Sommieres, the countryside changes from the lush vineyards of the Herault region to the more rugged rocky area of the Gard. There is still no shortage of vineyards in this area but the closeness of the Cevennes mountains makes for a superb backdrop to the already stunning scenery.

On our first few visits to France many years ago, we would head for Provence, but now we have realised that there is no need to travel further than half an hour from our own front door to find hill villages, quiet country roads and beautiful views. I appreciate that Peter Mayle did an amazing job of alerting the world to the beauty of Provence, but secretly, I think the Languedoc Roussillon region is probably quite relieved that he didn’t “discover” this area, and although we get our full quota of visitors, there isn’t the urge to visit the famous hill villages of Provence and buy up the last bit of real estate for vastly inflated prices.

We noted that there were still a great number of foreign number plates around, but many of them seemed to be loaded with bikes and roof racks and were headed northwards, so despite the glorious weather we are enjoying, apparently someone has to get back home and head for the office.

The children are still enjoying a few more days of freedom before school starts at the beginning of September, and then I imagine that the next influx will be the grape pickers. The vines are now starting to bend under the weight of the massive bunches of grapes that are just about ripe. Like heavy udders under a cow, they hang down below the wires that support the vines, and in the time that we have been here, they have gone from green to black.

We sat after lunch with Mamy and watched a bit of the closing ceremony of the Olympic Games. I was aware that I had missed out on a great deal of excitement by not having either TV or internet, but then again, I have had a great deal to occupy myself with and I am sure that by the time the 2012 games come about, I shall be firmly in front of a TV to see what sort of a show London can put on. Wow, I wish we had a bit of that sort of funding to stock up with lavender plants and oleander bushes for the front fence.

We are becoming experts on other people’s gardens, although it is invariably difficult to see the gardens due to the high walls and large gates which enclose just about every property in the village. I have seen walls and gates in Johannesburg, and these could give South Africa quite a run for their money. From the moment we arrived, Mamy and Michelle went to great lengths to ensure that we understood the imminent danger from rogues and thieves. The only thing that we possess of any value at present are our two laptops, but we follow instructions and close the shutters and lock the front gate before going any distance and it is a bit like closing up Fort Knox if we go into Montpellier.

We have taken to having an evening walk and are constantly amazed at just how big the village has grown. Our house used to be on the outskirts of the cluster of old houses, but now it is just about central, and the lotissement which is the name given to developments of new houses around a village or town, have grown incredibly in the past twenty years. Apparently the arrival of IBM in Lattes was responsible for a great many people buying and building in the area, and the prosperity of many of the houses goes to show what technology can do for your bank balance. And so we walk the small roads, peering over fences when we can, or peeking through gates as long as a large guard dog doesn’t hurl itself at us from the other side. We admire creepers, trees, flowering shrubs and the occasional swimming pool which can be seen through the gaps, and we are becoming expert on architectural styles and how many houses one builder got to build in a single road.

I have spent the evening trying to devote myself to answering many of the questions that I had before Uncle Google was back with me. This is not an easy task because as you will no doubt understand, searching for something as odd as Knights Templar – Chateau de Puget – Verargues can finish up with me reading up a recipe for Lebanese Aubergine Dip. I tried accessing information on the Cross of the Languedoc and kept coming up with something that doesn’t look a bit like the anchor shaped cross that we, and many others in the region, have on the house. The fougasse bread was fairly easy to find but then I came across the wonderful BBC Good Food site and I started to get enthusiastic about baking some until I realised that in the time in took the dough to rise, I could have legged it up the road to the boulangerie and bought a nice fresh hot one.

Tomorrow is Monday which means that just about everything is closed, but on Tuesday we can get to both the Municipal tip and the library will re-open after the summer break (now that we don’t need their internet services any longer – typical). I have thoroughly enjoyed reading “A House for Mr Biswas” and will return it along with the huge book on the Cathars which is fabulous for its photography, but frustrating because it is all in French. I think I might have to approach my old friend Amazon.com and see about getting something in English.
Stop Press: My clever husband just pointed out that my quest for the Languedoc Cross might be frustrated because what I am actually looking for is the Camargue symbol – Bingo! It represents faith, hope and charity and the anchor represents the fishermen of the region. Now about those Cathars!

A Few Photos - Saturday 23rd August

2008-08-23T13:15:00.000-07:00

The road leading into the village

Corconne - the hill village

The Road Above Pompignan

Aigues Mortes looking towards the Constance Tower

On the Canal Du Midi near Aigues Mortes

Cowboys of the Camargues farming the black bulls

Glad Tidings of Great Joy - Saturday 23rd August

2008-08-23T13:07:00.000-07:00

Grandfather Jean with Priscilla and Baby Ihlan

By now some of you might be checking on the dates and thinking that I am slacking. In fact I spent the whole of yesterday uploading the diary to the Blog. I am something of a Babe in the Woods when it comes to the high tech stuff but hopefully you are pleased with the results and many thanks to those kind folks who have already written and said how much they are enjoying it.

We took a bit of a break around 5.30pm yesterday evening to go and visit Jean's pal Joseph in the next village. I mentioned earlier that we hadn't been able to get hold of him and it turned out that he had been in hospital, so we reckoned that a quick "cheer up" visit would do him good. We hadn't been there five minutes when the phone rang and it was his daughter trying to track Jean down. What are the odds of that! She then proudly announced that he was a new Grandfather and that Priscilla had produced her son around lunchtime. (Trust a Frenchman to arrive in time for lunch!)

Great excitement all round and we headed for home and hit the telephone and the emails to announce the arrival of little Ihlan. (I really am going to have to confirm that spelling but I am sure that was what was written on his crib.) What joy to see this little bundle of life firmly latched onto his Mum and to know that all had gone well. Jean had dressed in a suitably grandfatherly but slightly trendy fashion so as to give the newcomer the best impression, but in my role as honorary Grandmother, I must confess that I sat in the very hot room and perspired profusely and spent a great deal of time mopping behind my glasses which led everyone to believe that I was overcome with emotion. In a way I was. He's a very special little man and it was lovely to see how Priscilla had taken to motherhood in such a calm and loving way. She has worked with and cared for many little ones while helping her mother who works at a crêche nearby, and now to have her own babe is the realization of her greatest dream.

The father had done the clever thing and having got to the hospital on time and stood his ground throughout the delivery, he had been taken out for lunch by his Uncle so we have yet to shake his hand. Priss comes home from hospital on Monday and they move house on Saturday, but they seem singularly unfazed at the prospect. We bought them a large and fairly heavy pot plant which can go into their courtyard and hopefully Sapho the dog won't knock it over, and it should carry on flowering until Ihlan is nearly three months old. They will be round to collect their car seat once they have found their feet, and secretly I know that both Jean and I are itching to get our hands on our little grandson again.

We drove to the hospital via Clapiers and called in at the Bio Nursery where we bought the plant. It is a massive American style garden shop with a large section devoted to fish and an assortment of ferrets, hamsters and rats. There was another section for Bio facial products and a restaurant for Bio snacks and drinks, so they had pretty much got all the bases covered, but it is easy to see that the holiday season has ended and there were far fewer people around. The traffic was light and the variety of number plates has almost returned to the local "34". Jean tells me that fairly soon they are going to do away with the old style of French plates where you can tell where someone comes from by the last two digits. "Damn fool Parisien" you can shout when you see anyone driving badly with "75" at the end of his number. In fact you could probably shout it just because they have got the number, even if they are obeying all the rules of the road. They must be completely used to being shouted at down here and probably find it charmingly provincial and colourful.

Tomorrow we are invited for lunch with Mamy up at Ledignan and we are going to tell her that we will attend the picnic which is being held the following Monday for all the residents of her care home. I know she is really hoping that we will go, and I daresay we can make ourselves useful by getting behind a couple of wheelchairs and helping move the elderly folks out into the open air for a change.

I am now about to load the brochettes with a large bowlful of chicken breast chunks which have been lolling about in a marinade for an hour or so, and we can put them on the barbeque, eat some and freeze the rest. The whole trick of dieting is to have something tasty on hand at all times which isn't ice cream, a large slice of pizza or a bag of pain au chocolat. There are still five lurking at the back of the freezer by the way, and they know that I know that they are there even though I keep trying to hide them under piles of green beans. I shall have to ensure that the freezer door is shut at all times lest they make an escape and turn up on a plate somewhere!

A footnote to the City Fathers of Montpellier. When grandparents are trying to find their way across the city to visit their latest addition, it would be a huge help if the street names of the city were visible and were not tiny blue squares attached to old walls and usually half covered in ivy. This does not make for marital bliss in the map reading department.

At Long Last - Thursday 21st August

2008-08-22T13:06:00.000-07:00

The Barbeque Builder, Chief Cook and Occasional Bottle Washer

For those of you paying attention, you will note that I didn’t write yesterday. Our lives have been altered and our timetables upturned. We are back on line. The gentlemen who run the internet cafe in Montpellier will probably close up shop and the lady in Customer services will be mourning the end of our daily phone calls.

Having got to the stage where we never believed anything that she told us, we went into Montpellier yesterday morning to be greeted warmly by the owner of the internet café. By this stage he was giving us the same two computers each time and making every effort to ensure that we felt at home, in the hopes of us returning on a regular basis. It was only due to the fact that they close firmly for lunch at midday that made us pack up and go home as we really didn’t hold out much hope for the promised visit of the technician between 2pm and 6pm. However, we did have a more definite date with the electrician who was coming to install a night meter to help us keep down the electricity costs.

We waited patiently and then all of a sudden, it was like a car park outside in the front garden. Not one but two little vans arrived, with the France Telecom technician getting in through the door about thirty seconds before the electrician. Things could have gotten ugly at this point as the technician needed the electricity switched on in order to work his magic, and the electrician needed it switched off so that he could complete his task and get on.

I fled to the kitchen and quickly rounded up glasses, iced water and fruit syrup and offered it to the electrician who was gracious in his acceptance and quite happy to hang on for five minutes. There was a roar of applause and general back-slapping and high fiving when the computer screens came to life and there was dear old Yahoo waiting to welcome me. We were back in touch with the world. For the first time in five weeks, I could speak to my children in far away Melbourne, I could download photos of the new family dog, phone my mother in England, and contact my brother in Canada and commiserate with my sister in law who had just suffered a broken arm. Skype messages from Argentina flashed up on the screen, a message came in from South Africa and my dear friend Sybil in Florida sent us a cheery wave. Emails from patient friends started coming in and there was access to all the latest news from around the world. I felt like a child in a sweet shop and didn’t know what to do first, and until nearly midnight last night I was still rushing hither and thither.

We did stop long enough to go for a very pleasant walk around a new neighbourhood that came as a complete surprise to us. We knew that St Jean du Moulin had grown in the past twenty years, but we stumbled upon an entire new chunk of grand houses, steep driveways and high walls covered in the much sought-after ivy. Having walked for nearly an hour, it was quite a relief to find that we had completed a circuit and we came out just about opposite the house for which my knees and hips were most grateful.

My liver has apparently returned to its normal shape and size after giving me a serious fright, and my waistline is also returning to a better shape and size after four days of careful eating. I suppose I shall have to undergo a barrage of tests once we are signed into the French medical system because this isn’t the first time it has given me a bit of a warning, and I am duly chastened and getting really good at making home made soup, seafood bouillabaisse and roasted vegetables on the barbeque. Who says that diet food has to be boring? The little melons which we buy from the farm stall are as sweet and juicy as could be, and there are six pain au chocolat languishing in the deep freeze and there they will stay for the time being.

I have been sitting here this afternoon tearing up copies of the Daily Telegraph. It’s not that I dislike the paper and throughout my travels I have always been delighted to come across a copy of it. We are starting a compost bin and now with access to Google and all the information that we need, we can begin to make use of all the vegetable parings and melon skins, and old newspapers We are going to have thousands upon thousands of leaves coming down in the near future which apparently help the process along, and we have found an unusual wire mesh container in the tool shed which will work perfectly. We were slightly suspicious that Papy might have been planning to rear rabbits in it with a view to popping them in a pot at some stage, but I cannot verify this so I shall give him the benefit of the doubt and decide that it was some clever gizmo for stopping rabbits eating some sort of plant.

We inspected the beans early this morning and I am proud to announce that as the flowers fall off, there are little green beans appearing. I’m sorry to think that there is no time to get another batch going before the autumn comes, but we will thoroughly enjoy our first batch. The courgettes are definitely preparing to go into action and the spinach shoots are starting to show. There are some very suspicious gaps in the rows and some extremely fat ants walking about, and while I don’t want to cast aspersions, I might be forced to cast a bit of ant powder down some of the holes.

It seems to be all gardening and computers today but we will work out a decent schedule once we have caught up with the backlog. I had forgotten what a terrible time waster it is to have all this information at my fingertips, but at least I found out about what to put in my composter!

Getting My Goat - Tuesday 19th August

2008-08-22T13:00:00.000-07:00

The potager taking shape with four rows ready for planting

This has not been a day for the record books but finally things are looking up. Having started the day feeling worse than I did yesterday, I really began to wonder if I had picked up some strange bug but without the assistance of “Uncle Google” to check out my various ailments, I could do little more than rely on a liver cleansing remedy, headache pills for the detox symptoms and drink litres of water.

I hung around all morning like a limp rag and Jean waited patiently for signs of improvement and also for the promised phone call from the technician. Neither appeared to be in the offing, so he took matters into his own hands - quite literally. Among his many talents, Jean has the power of Reiki and in the past, he has worked wonders on battered and bruised bits of my body. I always reckon that internally I am as strong as an ox, but the bodywork is a bit the worse for wear having hurled myself from my horse many years ago in Africa. Laying his hands on my horrible distended stomach, he sat patiently and I felt the intense heat building up. It makes him terribly thirsty and he is cautious about washing his hands afterwards, but there is no doubt that it works. I was still feeling wobbly and weak, but the cramping pain just below my ribcage had eased off and I even felt strong enough to face a trip to the supermarket.

There was one more thing that he had to do before we left. Getting on the phone to Customer Services, he gave them a right royal ticking off and the result is that they have promised to send a technician to the house tomorrow afternoon. The electrician is also coming to sort out the night meter and steady down the boiling water that comes from the tank, and if all goes well, I can see us breaking out the pastis and doing a victory dance in the courtyard. Clearly France is back to work and thanks to Jean never loosening his grip on the telephone people, we have stayed near the top of the priority list and they know that he won’t give up.

In view of the damage done with regards to our diet over the past five weeks, we have turned over a new leaf and have reverted to our eating habits from our time in America. The fridge is now bare of cheese, butter, bread, ham, saucisson and paté. The wine bottles remain unopened and the olives stay in their pot. Until we get our waistlines back under control and our livers back into shape, it is green beans, brown rice, fresh vegetables, lean chicken and fish and lots of fresh fruit.

We went to see Norma this afternoon. Norma isn’t so much a friend as an establishment where it is possible to purchase large packs of assorted goods from a warehouse setting rather than have the wide selection from the local supermarket. I was only after the chicken breasts and the fish and the washing powder and softener so it didn’t take us long to nip round and stock up, before heading off to the local supermarket for the fresh vegetables and freezer bags.

Even now as I write, the large pot of homemade vegetable soup is simmering on the stove and the chicken breasts are in a marinade waiting to go onto the barbeque. The goat nearly got me, but we are turning the tables and looking to a healthier future. Of course I am quite sure that these delicious delicacies will sneak back into the diet eventually, but in a far more controlled manner.

18 Is My Lucky Number - Monday 18th August

2008-08-22T12:44:00.000-07:00

An update on the bean progress with the bare garage wall behind

You may have read the headlines “Tourists in France attacked by mountain dogs guarding sheep”. Well, I bet you don’t read the one that says “English woman savaged by goat and cow disguised as cheese”.

We tried the bed switch last night and at 3.00am I was awake and in pain and decided that the time had come to stop blaming the bed and have a serious think about my eating and drinking patterns over the past week. The scorching heat had abated last Monday and with it went our ability to drink water like thirsty camels arriving at an oasis. We still drank some, but nothing near the amounts that we had been getting through. My clever habit of drinking wine mixed with water and ice had gone out of the window when I had started sampling some of the bottles that we had purchased during the wine fete at Le Clerc, and we don’t even want to discuss the baguette, croissants and the pain au chocolat! Of course, there was no let up in the consumption of brie, camembert, goat cheese, and all the other wonderful cheeses on offer. Not having eaten cheese for the past five years unless it was a bit of parmesan sprinkled onto spaghetti or the occasional slice of pizza, and never keeping bread in the house, my liver was making a very clear statement.

“Step away from the pate, the cheese and pork stuffing meat. Put down the wine glass and pick up the water glass. Avoid the supermarket and the boulangerie and head for the fruit stalls”.

So from this morning, I am surrounded by bottles of water, slices of apple, and as soon as we head out to do some shopping, I will be stocking up on melons. You see before you a reformed citizen of France who has to stop acting like a tourist on a five week binge and settle down to being a responsible and slim permanent resident.

We nearly fell out of the window with excitement this morning when a truck loaded with cement and a concrete drilling machine parked outside the house and started digging up the road. This could mean one of three things.

1. They were going to install a speed hump to reduce the noise and the manic racetrack behaviour on our stretch of road.
2. They were digging up the “tout è l’e gout” which is the extension of our rather smelly sewage system.
3. France Telecom had arrived to lay a new line to the house.

It turned out to be number three, but before you get excited on our behalf, they weren’t laying a new line but fixing the concrete around the manhole cover that was starting to sink into the road surface. I was all for offering them coffee and the use of the loo if they would just chuck in a speed hump while they were at it, but sadly, like workmen all around the world, their job is specific and their worksheet is unbending.

Jean is marching around with an assortment of tools in his hands and making various banging noises around the corner out of sight of the terrace. When I ask him what he is doing, he merely says “Helping the guys” which I know is a big fat lie. Eventually curiosity will get the better of me and I will go and see what clever plan he has come up with this time. When I think that we arrived on the farm in Africa and neither of us had the first idea how to set about doing anything much, by the time we left, Jean could strip the gears on the windmill, service the diesel engine, string a tight wire fence and even put his hand inside a cow and produce a calf. After five years in Miami doing nothing much other than pounding the keys of a computer, it is so good to see him with a hammer and a chisel in his hand, and a look of deep satisfaction when he sees a job well done.

Curiosity has been satisfied. Clever man has moved a row of rocks that were cemented in to the edge of the driveway. He had made some changes a while back but it still wasn't enough, and reversing out is always a bit of a trick and we really don’t want to damage Michelle’s car despite its considerable age. In moving the line of rocks back by a couple of feet, he has not only made the drivers life far easier, but he has left a nice little border into which can go an assortment of bedding plants that will create a lovely splash of colour on the rocks.

The sun is playing hide-and-seek today which means that the temperature is far more pleasant, and the plumbago is looking far brighter, and hopefully by lunchtime, so will I. Right now I feel like a walking swimming pool with about three litres of water sloshing about inside and a rather muggy head from the effects of the de-toxing that must be going on. I can hear you saying “we have no sympathy for you – anyone who tries to commit suicide by eating cheese and washing it down with wine deserves all they get”.

Another project is underway. We are determined to grow some of the very pretty climber that seems to do well on sunny walls. The bare garage wall that forms the side of the courtyard gets full sun and a covering of the red and gold leaves in autumn would be so pretty. The pounding has begun as Jean attempts to break a hole in the concrete in order to get a root going. Now where did I put the last two headache pills?

You’ve probably heard the theory that stolen plants always grow better. We’ve been really trying to do the legal thing and buy some of the climber but a trip to the garden centre this afternoon proved fruitless because “the green man” who knows about everything wasn’t there today. We went down to the quarry in the hopes of finding some rambling over the old stone walls, but once again were disappointed. Refusing to be beaten, we then drove all around the back of the village and out into the vineyards.

The lovely buildings of St Jean de l’Arbousiers winery are covered with the stuff but we didn’t want to get nicked by the watchman in the process of stripping his walls so we bypassed that and continued to St Drezery. Jean’s old friend Joseph lives there but despite several phone calls, we couldn’t raise him. Perhaps we should just nip in and check up on him. Oh dear, no Joseph, but his walls were covered in the much sought after climber! I can’t think of anyone who would more willingly give us a few cuttings, so we filched a couple and have put them into the hole in the concrete next to the garage wall. Now all we have to do is hope that they take a liking to the surface and in no time, we will have a thick coating of leaves adorning the building.

I haven’t mentioned the “you know what” so far today, but of course we still don’t have a “you know what” but Jean is right this moment making his daily phone call. The moment he got through, they asked if he was Mr Fagalde, so clearly we are making some sort of headway. She says that red lights are flashing on her screen so we seem to have got to the top of some sort of lost of jobs needing urgent attention, but regardless of the encouraging sound of her voice, it is not the sound that we wish to hear. What we need to hear is a loud ringing sound. It is five weeks to the day since we arrived and the phone was ordered in the first week. We are assured of a phone call tomorrow morning from the technician himself and it starts to look as though they only really got working on the problem last Thursday just before the long weekend. Never try and get anything done in France in August.

"Give Your Back a Break" Day - Sunday 17th August

2008-08-22T12:36:00.000-07:00

My Beloved en route to the Tabac for the Daily Telegraph

“Ouch, Ow, Arghh”! I don’t quite know how else to describe waking up this morning, or waking up throughout the night. I was in serious pain and it felt as though the muscles of my stomach and middle back had been put into some awful medieval torture device and squeezed. The only thing to do was to stagger out of bed as soon as it was light, and go and sit in my comfortable relaxing chair on the terrace and wait for the pain killers to kick in. Clearly the Princess was having major trouble with the pea and something had to be done.

Once I had regained some movement, we went back through the past few days of the diary and tried to work out just when and where things had gone seriously pear shaped. This wasn’t the pain of lifting and shifting or painting and pruning; this was some awful muscle strain that happened at night and which, during the course of the day slowly cleared until by 8pm I was once again feeling like a spring chicken, only the spring chicken eventually had to go to bed whereupon the chicken was put back on the rack.

“Papy’s mattress has made it too soft” was one idea.
“The planks that we put across are too rigid” was another.
“You ate too much of Marco’s pizza last night” but this got shot down in flames.
“The good news is that I haven’t been bitten for two nights” was the only bright light on the horizon.

Once I was able to help, we removed the old mattress from under the new one and re-arranged the planks and this afternoon, Jean nobly offered to have his afternoon siesta on the double bed while I lay down on the one in the spare room. Result! We were both fine so that was progress. Tonight I shall sleep on the spare bed which has a very good mattress despite being rather narrow, and I shall see if my midnight torture abates.

We were definitely rewarded when we went out for a trundle in the vineyards this evening and incorporated a short walk. Just around the corner from where we had parked the car we found a pile of excellent but obviously dumped good quality brand new sprung floorboards, just the exact length and width that we needed. Into the back of the car they went and when we got home, we washed and cleaned them and installed them across the base of the bed and ditched the ones from Leroy Merlin.

It was an evening of rewards. Jean’s brother-in-law who has got fed up with the telephone situation, phoned from Toulouse to say that he had contacted a pal of his who is one of the “Powers that be” with France Telecom and he is taking on our case first thing tomorrow and is intending to beat the drum until we get action, thus proving yet again, that “It is not What you know but Who you know”.

Speaking of trundles, we went for one this morning and drove slightly further than we had anticipated. Last night, Priscilla and Damien had given us clear directions how to get to the clinic where our grandson will be born. Both Priss and Damien were born there so a rather nice pattern is emerging, but rather than have to find it in a hurry, we thought we would reconnoitre and be prepared. We were doing fine until we overshot the unmarked major road that led to the clinic, and the next thing we were off into the wilds of north west urban Montpellier.

A nice guy who looked like Barack Obama’s younger brother sold us a map in a gas station, and a pretty young girl pointed out the clinic, and we promptly set off once more in totally the wrong direction. The long and the short of it is that we finished up doing a complete circuit of the outskirts of Montpellier and decided to quit while we were ahead and got onto the A9 which took us quickly back home again. Having had some lunch, we looked again at the map and worked out where we had gone wrong, so let’s hope when we get the call to arms, we can sally forth and head straight for the right medical facility and not wind up in the dental clinic or the eye specialists office demanding to see our new grandson.

For those of you who are feeling peckish, it is only fair to mention that right now, Jean is basting a row of brochettes on the barbeque which are skewers of marinated chicken breast, red peppers, mushrooms and onions all basted with a rather nice olive oil and herb mix. If the smells are anything to go by, it is going to be utterly delicious. And on that very selfish note, I leave you in the hopes that tomorrow I can report a pain free back and a ringing telephone, and then, let joy be unconfined.

Gardeners Note: The beans are in full flower, the radishes are popping up on a daily basis and the ants appear to be laying off the spinach seed. The new blue plumbago is looking a bit tired in the heat today but hopefully a cooling spray tonight will revive it. We’ve put the portulaca into the full sun and have been rewarded with a variety of different coloured flowers. Ralph underwent surgery yesterday and has been sulking today and only a sharp tap on his house will encourage him to sing. Maybe that transatlantic chirp has worn him out and he needs a new battery. I could sympathise with him this morning.

Update: Just in case you were wondering, the brochette were utterly delicious and were accompanied by a charming white wine from the Mas Des Oliviers from Fougeres.

Footnote – any parent who buys his thirteen year old a “buzz bike” for his birthday should be dragged into the streets and horsewhipped, especially when he lives on the road behind our property. Roll on the 4th September when the little darlings all go back to school. Not for nothing does Jean call me “The Grandmother from Hell”.

Doubting Thomas - Saturday 16th August

2008-08-22T12:23:00.000-07:00

Jean and Priss - it looks like a race to the finish line!

I’m sure you’ve had one of those days when you find yourself wondering if you really did turn off the gas, lock the front door and remember to leave a note for the milkman. We are having one of those days.

For three nights in a row I have suffered horrible backache and I am now eyeing the new mattress and wondering if it really is the root of the problem. I know full well that I slept on it quite happily for two weeks without backache and I also know that I have been weeding, digging, lifting and shifting things all week which would naturally give me backache. One happy outcome is that we have discovered that you CAN buy Nurofen Plus from the pharmacie and it does the trick, so ibroprofen isn’t on the banned list in France after all.

Jean is doubting his computer skills at this moment and is pouring over the manual of the new telephone system, suddenly filled with fear that he might not have installed the internet connection correctly. He knows that he has been told by the Customer Services people that their system shows that the trouble is on their line, but there’s just that niggling doubt that maybe, just maybe it is our fault.

One thing that we have absolutely no doubt about is that we have done the right thing in coming to France. We might have to tighten our belts a bit and tread a little carefully on the financial front, but it is so well worth it. Our borrowed car might clatter and stutter and maybe we can’t afford to blow a lot of cash on the garden, but we have a car and we have a garden and we have our own front door. The very thought of being back in the apartment in Miami is enough to give me a swift dose of claustrophobia and I doubt I will ever be able to live seventeen stories off the ground ever again.

Knowing that our chances of getting a phone connection today were minimal, we drove along to our familiar spot at Sabblasou tram/car park and rode the tram into Montpellier. We have discovered that we can get within 200 yards of the internet café by sitting tight on the Number 2 line which goes all the way to the Gare St Roch which is the main line station. The tram ride is so easy and we managed to get front seats today on the return journey and it’s quite a kick whizzing up the grass road in which the tracks are embedded.

The Moroccan guys who run the café greeted us with familiar warmth and I think they start to see a bit of a regular pattern appearing. At least Jean managed to get his own laptop linked to the system which meant that he could do vital things like check our bank balances and juggle the funds a bit, and I cleared the emails and reassured everyone that we were still alive and kicking but just not connected yet.

We’ve been invited for a drink with Jean’s daughter this evening. She is due to deliver her babe in about two weeks time and must be feeling like an unexploded bomb right now. I think he’s going to be a seven pounder and she can no longer fit behind the wheel of her car and is more than ready to have him on the outside. We’ll go via Marco the Pizza Man and fetch a couple of Four Seasons to go with the drinks, and I reckon we will be making a fairly early night of it.

I told you yesterday that we were forced to take action against the ants, but I’ve just been and checked up on them, and all they have done is open the back door to their home and set up another supply route. This time I stood and watched carefully to make sure that nobody was carrying spinach seed on his back, and since they all appeared to be clean, I resisted giving them another dousing with ant powder. I am terrified that they might all have been little Buddhist monks at one time and I hate killing anything.

Jean is a bit disappointed that there isn’t an orderly queue of customers waiting to use his bird table, but I am quite sure that they are sussing it out from the safely of the nearby trees and will avail themselves of our hospitality very soon. He has put Ralph out there as a sort of welcoming committee but I don't know if the sight of a bright blue and orange plastic bird is going to bring them flocking in. Poor thing might get pecked and beaten up and I think I am going to rescue him and bring him back to the safety of his little blue house.

Doubting Thomas got on the line to Customer Services again and dare we say it but there appears to be a slight reason for optimism. The lady stated quite clearly that the fault had now been found at a main box some distance away from us and they had started work on the problem on Thursday, but sadly they were unable to finish before the Public holiday overtook them. (So much for working 24/7) Since things are now at a standstill for the weekend, we are assured that on Monday they are returning to the scene of the problem with all guns blazing and she feels sure that we will be connected by the end of the day. One good thing is that Jean feels re-assured that the fault was nothing to do with him. He said earlier today that if he found that we could have been on line all this time, he would have reason to shoot himself so I am happy to hear that there is a stay of execution and all we can do is hope.

We had planned to go and have Sunday lunch with Mamy tomorrow up at Ledignan but circumstances beyond our control have forced us to delay our date until Tuesday which means that tomorrow is ours to do with as we please. Of course, it also means that if we are connected on Monday and Jean can start on his mountainous backlog, we are going to have to stop work as soon as we get started and go up to Ledignan. Never mind; just to be able to sit in our easy chairs on the terrace and work on our laptops and do what needs to be done instead of trundling in and out of Montpellier will be great, and in future we can leave visits to that lovely city for outings of a more exciting nature.

6.00pm and we set out for Assas to visit Priscilla, Damien and Carol Lynn but before we got there, we needed to get hold of a couple of pizzas. We had tried phoning Marco the Pizza Man on his cell phone but only got a message to say that he wasn’t taking orders yet. For all we knew, he had closed up shop and gone away for the weekend like the rest of France, so leaving a slightly hopeful message on his machine, we drove down through Castries looking for somewhere open. The traffic in town was horrendous and we had only just succeeded in making it through to the far end when the phone rang and it was Marco ready and willing to take orders. Luckily the phone rang just as we were about to go halfway round a roundabout and leave the area, so I did a complete circuit and doubled back through yet more traffic and headed home.

With half an hour to spare while Marco worked his magic, we walked up to the church just in time to see the bride and groom and entire wedding party emerging from the ancient St Jean du Moulin church. Lots of dear little girls in fluffy white dresses sat on the church steps while an anxious photographer tried to get everyone lined up for the group photo. The main problem was that someone had left a car parked right in front of the church that was clearly spoiling the effect but fortunately the priest appeared and cheerfully climbed in and moved it. With traffic held up in both directions, the wedding party cheered and waved their arms in the air and the bride and groom kissed, and then with a great deal of hooting and shaking of ribbons, the crowds headed off for the reception. We legged it back to Marco’s just down the road to retrieve our order just in case any of the wedding guests had worked up an appetite in church and jumped the queue.

Assas turned out to be rather a nice surprise. I think we were expecting something of a dormitory town with it being relatively close to Montpellier, but it turned out to be yet another lovely old country village with narrow streets and pretty gardens. Priscilla and Damien had found themselves a very nice little Granny Flat tucked away on the edge of town with enough garden to satisfy their delightful boxer dog Sapho. Priscilla is coming to the boil quickly and has already had the early stage contractions that signify that our grandson is on his way. However, she was undaunted, and after we had eaten the pizza and admired the photos of his early foetal progress thanks to the wonders of modern science, we drove back home, giving them the opportunity to tidy up and then get to the St Drezery fete.

I asked Priss if she intended to dance but she laughed and said that she would be sitting this one out, but it would be probably her last chance to get together with all the pals before becoming a Mum. I think they are going to make excellent parents, and with Sapho already cast as the twin brother, they are going to be a happy little band. Only one slight concern is that the house move is scheduled for the 1st September and her due date is around the same time. Perhaps she can stay peacefully in hospital while everyone else moves the furniture.

It was such a lovely evening that we took advantage of a parking spot on the edge of St Drezery en route home, and walked through the village to check out the fun. Apart from a rather bored confused bull who was being urged to chase the requisite number of daring young men in the central village square, nothing much was going on if you didn’t feel like propping up the bar, so we walked through the old narrow village streets and found our way back to the car and headed home.

I forgot to mention that while waiting for the last five minutes while the pizza reached perfection, we popped over the road to the cemetery to make sure that the cactus plants were happy and that the new red geranium hadn’t decamped. Everything was as it should be and it occurred to me that during the course of the evening, we had checked out “Hatched, Matched and Dispatched” fairly successfully.

"We're All Going On A Summer Holiday" Friday 15th August

2008-08-22T12:12:00.000-07:00

Jean's new bird house

I reckon that’s what the technicians have done. It’s a public holiday today; the last of the summer long weekends and apparently everyone and his grandmother goes off and does something jolly, and definitely doesn’t seem to stay at work trying to get people’s phones connected!

We’ve hung around in a half-hearted fashion apart from a little walk up to the village to buy a copy of The Daily Telegraph from the nice lady at the Tabac. She informs us that there are other English speaking villagers who come in and buy a copy and she says that if I give her some information slips, she will pass them along. It would be fun to make contact with a few local folks, even if it is for the occasional drink and a barbeque. Without any contact with the outside world at present, I do enjoy just occasionally catching up, and the Telegraph seems like a nice way to do it. There’s something very satisfying about sitting out on the terrace with a good cup of coffee, a fresh pain au chocolat and the crisp crackle of the morning paper. My parents used to get The Telegraph, and I would skim through it on the odd occasions when I was at home in the UK. Now I read every single word, even wading through the “Hatched, Matched and Dispatched sections. Happy Birthday to the Princess Royal and I do hope that she is enjoying the Olympics in Beijiing. I would be enjoying it IF I HAD AN INTERNET CONNECTION.

We walked back from the village via a rather nice little country lane which runs along the back of our property. We noticed the “A Vendre” sign which announced that the field behind us is for sale, but hopefully nobody will decide to move in with heavy earth-moving equipment and large teams of noisy builders. If it wasn’t for the sounds of passing traffic in the front of the house, we could be forgiven for thinking that we were living in the heart of the country and we are totally surrounded by large established trees. Jean commented the other day that he has ceased having to use a nasal spray, without which he could hardly breathe in Miami. I am quite certain that the health giving properties of trees are manifesting themselves and it has definitely made a welcome change to his snoring habits.

Michelle rushed in this morning. She has two regular Friday morning hair-dressing clients and she fits in a whirlwind cup of coffee and a catch-up on her way to the river where she gets organised for her first canoe clients. We pointed out the levelled rock and the altered state of the lounge, but she didn’t seem to notice either until we made her have a second look. However, she was impressed with the state of the potager and is going to dash off to Sommiere market and buy some plants as soon as she has time.

The day started showery, but has got progressively better, and by midday, we were outside and getting busy. I added a ginger coloured tint to the rather pale paint that we bought the other day, and managed to come up with the right colour for the side wall. I then got carried away and painted the tool shed and a chunk of wall in the courtyard, and now my arm feels as though it is going to drop off. It’s really hard getting the colour just right because the sun goes to work on the mushroom biscuit colour that every house is painted here in the Herault, and walls can vary in shade from one end to the other. Fortunately a house which is well into it’s second century is very forgiving, and whatever improvements that we make help to give it a far more lived in and loved look.

Jean got busy building a bird table which started out as a simple tray and now has a pitched roof and little dividers on the floor so that the seed doesn’t get blown away. He is now talking about gutters and I teased and asked if a drainpipe and water barrel was in the offing!

My dear English friend Maggie gave me a miniature 1940 edition of a French/English-English/ French dictionary which had belonged to her mother, and it’s fascinating to see just how many words are tied into the English language. It gives me a bit of confidence, but my French lessons have slewed to a halt due to the fact that for some reason, the programme won’t work on the computer without the disc, and of course that’s in the luggage WHICH IS STILL STUCK IN ENGLAND! I know everyone is amazed that I am unable to speak French and yet have been living with a Frenchman for the best part of sixteen years. There’s no real excuse, but English has always been our home language, and try as we might, we just never get around to conversing in French.

We actually had to come inside yesterday evening and close all the windows as it suddenly got quite nippy. It occurred to me that we each have one light sweater with us and that is the sum total of our cold weather gear. There is plenty coming as we spent last Christmas in Toronto with my brother and his family, so we object having to purchase anything else until our stuff gets here, so let’s hope that the nip in the air was just a passing weather system. I am creaking like a rusty gate at present and bearing in mind how fit we should be after three months of packing, stacking, moving and carrying stuff, and now a solid month of gardening, it must be the weather that is getting into my joints.

Oh the joy of being able to hop into the car and make the most of a sunny spell. We took a break around 4.30pm and went out on the road from the back of the village that cuts through the vineyards to St Jean de Cornies. From here we somehow got onto a dirt track which ambled its way in the general direction of St Hilaire de Beauvoire, but rather than get onto any main routes, we found another little side road that eventually wound its way back to Beaulieu (which is pronounced Bollyoo). For much of the drive, we could see the outline of the Cevennes mountains and the huge outcrop of Pic St Loup and it never ceases to fill me with delight that it is all really just an extension of our own back garden and it is there for us to enjoy whenever we want.

We are now back home and I am enjoying a glass of rather excellent rosé wine from Chateau Saint Alban-Costières de Nîmes. Jean is about to put his bird table up on the pole and I must go and act as ladder holder. All I have to do then is to think of something tasty to put onto the barbeque. Life isn’t exactly hard here in France, even though we do more physical work than we have done in the past five years. It’s the rewards that make it so worth while and you know life is good when you get a huge kick out of seeing a row of little radish seeds popping their heads through the soil. Now about those ants!

"Wishing and Hoping, Planning and Dreaming 14th August

2008-08-22T12:01:00.000-07:00

The church at Montaud

It is midday. The church bell has rung twelve times, and a large gun has just gone off in neighbouring St Drezery which signifies that festivities are about to get underway for the day, but sadly for the organisers, it looks as though we might be in for a few showers of rain. Needless to say, the church bell might have rung but the phone hasn’t and we can do nothing other than sit and hope.

This morning we made up a list of jobs still needing to be done in the garden and I wrote out a shopping list. Jean washed the black and white chequered stone floor in the lounge/dining room and I have given the oleander bush in the courtyard an even more severe haircut than it had a day or two ago. We need all sorts of bits and pieces from Leroy Merlin the handy man shop, but dare not leave the house in case the phone rings. Frustration might start to set in, but for the moment, it is quite a relief to be able to give our aching backs a bit of a rest and enjoy the fact that it is markedly cooler today.

I awoke in the night to the most horrendous screaming of brakes and I waited to hear the crash as the vehicle that was passing the house slewed into a wall. I looked at the clock and it was 1.44am, but the odd thing was that there was no sound of a car engine, and this morning, we should have been able to see huge skid marks on the road but there was nothing. Jean looked as me sideways when I recounted what I had heard and muttered something about UFO’s, but I wondered if maybe it had been one of the French airforce jets which occasionally scream overhead. If they were on night manoeuvres I am sure they would have enjoyed waking up half the population of the Herault. On the whole we are fortunate not to be on any major flight routes despite the fact that Montpellier International airport isn’t all that far away, but just now and then we see a passenger plane lumbering overhead if the wind is in an unusual direction.

Well I don’t really need to tell you that it is now 7.30pm and we are still phoneless. We did our best and hung around looking hopeful all morning, but after lunch, we gave up and nipped off to Leroy Merlin. First thing on the shopping list were some planks to go under the mattress. The Princess is having no problem with the pea, but she goes find that she rolls into the centre of the bed which the Prince finds somewhat disturbing. I think the weight of two mattresses is proving to be a bit much for the springs that cannot possibly be in their youth. Let’s see if tonight will bring a more supported sleep.

We are blessed with the big picture window in the bedroom giving access to the great outdoors, and if I am feeling too idle to walk all the way round through the kitchen, the lounge and out onto the terrace, it makes for a very quick exit. However, it is seldom a graceful exit, and all I needed was something to give me a bit of a boost to get me over the windowsill. Scratching around in the garage, I found just what was required in the shape of a solid old footstool that stands about two feet off the ground. All it lacked was a lick of paint and it is ideal for stepping elegantly over the windowsill and out into the courtyard. I have painted it the same citroen blue which matches Ralph’s house that hangs in the tree, and it makes for a bright splash amid the green and yellow.

When we arrived back home from the shopping trip, Jean got straight onto the phone to make our daily complaint to Customer Services and this time, the woman on the other end actually commiserated with him and gave him a number to call which might result in us getting something by way of compensation for the ridiculous amount of time that it is taking to sort out the problem. Tomorrow is a public holiday, but she assured us that the France Telecom engineers neither sleep nor take days off. “24/7” was her assurance and so that means that tomorrow, we play the “wait and see game” yet again. It’s very hard knowing what to do on a public holiday when right now, our entire lives are, by circumstances beyond our control, one long holiday.

We changed all the lounge furniture round last night and it looks very cosy, but desperately in need of our books, paintings and bits and pieces. We don’t own much of any real value, but our stuff has been gathered up over the years from a variety of homes and countries, and it is so odd to be living in a house where I don’t even have a single photograph on the wall or a magnet on the fridge. I did manage to find some music on the computer earlier and it was rather nice relaxing and enjoying supper whilst being serenaded by the London Symphony Orchestra.

Our radishes are popping up and the beans are in full flower. The courgettes are producing a new leaf every day but we were forced to go to war with the ants who were carting away something which looked suspiciously like spinach seed on their backs. I hate to knock out an opponent quite so harshly, but having worked so hard to start up a vegetable garden, I simply couldn’t stand by and watch it being hijacked by a horde of ants.

Jean also had to go back to the pharmacie for yet another bottle of insect spray for adults. They just won’t give up on me, and this morning, I had all the sheets and blankets out on the line yet again while the mattresses were sprayed thoroughly. It’s not anywhere near as bad as it used to be, but right now, I look as though I have been attacked by a vampire with two neat bite marks just below my right ear. Maybe I should take some of the garlic out of the fridge and hang it across the window at night!

Today was my son-in-law’s birthday in far away Melbourne. I did manage to send him a rather garbled email using the French keyboard at the Arab Internet Café. I am really missing my regular phone calls and frequent emails from my children and my grandchildren, but if the technicians stay on the job, maybe we might get lucky this weekend. Have you ever come across optimism like it?

A Horseman Riding By - 13th August

2008-08-22T11:52:00.000-07:00

Check the legs and you'll spot the bull

We used to sit in the apartment in Miami, unable to open the balcony door because the new balconies were being built. Our windows were covered in blue plastic and the doors were firmly locked, and anyway we knew that outside, the temperature was in the 80’s and there was nowhere to go even if we did go out. We used to dream of being able to sit in our own garden or go for a drive in the country, but that seemed like an impossibility. And now here we are; we have spent the day in the garden and this evening we went for what we like to call “a trundle”. It was just going to be a short drive out into the country, nothing special, just a look at the vineyards and a chance to watch the evening light on the old villages.

We drove out through St Drezery which is our neighbouring village about two miles up the road, and quickly realised that something was going on. Most of the local populace was out in the streets, the red iron gates were up and the parking area was full of horse boxes. Clearly a combination of bulls and horses was imminent, but what and where. We were still dressed in our gardening clothes, dirty, unwashed and dishevelled, and I just knew that if we were to stop and see what was happening, the first person I would bump into would be Jean’s ex wife who lives in the village with her new husband. I can hear my male readers saying “so what” and the female readers nodding understandingly, knowing this is not the image that a woman wants to present to her predecessor.

Fortunately, we found parking on the edge of the village and it was hugely rewarding, because no sooner than we had found ourselves a safe vantage point on the other side of a deep ditch, a sound like cannon fire exploded, and the next moment, a group of horseman astride the beautiful Camargue horses came down the road with two bulls penned between them. I edged as close to the road as I dared with my camera, and with a great clattering of hooves and shouts of encouragement, the horsemen cantered past me.

I am quite sure that if we had planned to see this spectacle, we would have battled to find parking and I would have been in a spin in case my total lack of wardrobe for such occasions was a problem. Instead, we stuck the car into the first gap that we saw, and had prime position as the horsemen came out of town on their way to the farm where the bulls and horses would rest up for the night.

It is the “Fete Votive” of St Drezery this week and there will be a few days of boules contests, bull running and general dancing, drinking and late night enjoyment, and unless we are totally tied up with the internet and the phone connection tomorrow we will try and see a bit of it.

Because we couldn’t back-track through the village we continued up and around Montaud, checking out a likely looking plant nursery, and pausing to see if the blackberries which were looking plump and ready were any good. Sadly I have to report that French blackberries in this region are nothing like the delicious berries of England. They were rather tasteless and dry and I realised that if they were being left on the bushes by a populace who will gather and turn everything into something deliciously worth eating, then there was little point in expending time and energy in picking them. It looks like another job for “Bonne Maman” that well known provider of the best jams in France.

Meantime, we will go out and water the garden, sit for a while on our level slab of rock and watch the bats dive bomb each other between the trees, and then sleep soundly after yet another rewarding and busy day.

Who Moved The Stone?? Wednesday 13th August

2008-08-22T10:04:00.000-07:00

Now That's a level rock

We did! You might have started to realise by now that if we sit and look at something which needs doing for more than three days, it usually gets done. Every time we sat at the table underneath the platane tree, we eye the sloping slab of rock and tossed around suggestions as to how we could improve it.

Our day had begun with a very cheery phone call from the technician at France Telecom. Yes he knew where the problem was, Yes he knew how to fix it, and Yes he would be around to the house by the middle of the day. Meantime, we should stand by to hear the sound of the phone ringing.

The sun was shining once more and there was a lovely light cooling breeze, so we charged into action. I went into the kitchen to wash up the dishes from last night and finished up washing the floors throughout the house. Jean went out onto the terrace which was covered in muddy footprints after the rain, and not only did he wash it, but he also cleared every single leaf and muddy mark from the courtyard. From there we moved into the garden, and I got in a row of spinach seed and another one of onions.

Meantime Jean was gluing the corner back on the memorial grave tablet for Robert which had been knocked off at some stage. For an awful moment, thinking that superglue wasn’t doing the trick, he suddenly found that it was and the stone tablet was securely glued to the wooden plank that he was working on. I went and busied myself elsewhere while he went to work with a hammer and a chisel, but thank heavens he managed to part the two without doing further damage.

And all this time, no tinkling of phone bells and no encouraging visits from the technician. Our morning was sent on something of a downhill slide when we got a call from the shippers in UK. They now had the paperwork they needed to clear our shipment, but the first truck that they had coming down to our neck of the woods was only going to get here by mid September. Five more weeks in these clothes! Never mind, at least we aren’t living in a tent in Darfur or homeless after an earthquake in China.

And so to the slab of stone. Knowing that nothing else was going to happen, we set about levelling it. I am afraid that the method used must remain a deep dark secret. As I am sure you are aware, the Masons keep their inner workings hidden from view and we would hate to give away any magic, but suffice it to say, that the stone is now level and has been turned into a rather nice feature in the courtyard. In the couple of hours that it took us to do the job, we learned a great deal about Stonehenge, Hadrian’s Wall and the Great Wall of China and were rather glad that we weren’t around for any of them. All I am prepared to say is that there was no third party present but that is all I can divulge for the time being.

We are planning a surprise birthday party lunch for Jean’s mother. She will be turning 87 in the middle of October, and if all goes well, she should get here in time for us to have a telephone that is working, a houseful of personal effects and a new great grandson. Not bad for a surprise birthday I reckon! I would love for her to see the house and garden looking at its best. Each week when we go to visit, I take the laptop with the latest photos of our progress, and she takes great delight in seeing what we are doing to bring her house back to life.

3pm came but no technician came, so Jean got back on the phone for his daily call to the Customer Service people. They must be used to us by now, but at least everything that is being done appears on their computer screen, and they tell us that they now know where the problem is, what the problem is and they have the part that they need to fix it. They will be phoning us early tomorrow morning and if all goes well ……….. well you know the rest.

Cruel Disappointment - Tuesday 12th August

2008-08-22T08:32:00.000-07:00

The front of our little L shaped house after the first two weeks

We went all the way into Montpellier this morning and found our little Arab-run internet café in the back streets near the station. The proprietor welcomed us warmly, plugged us in and pointed out the coffee machine and left us to try and clear some of the backlog.

We had arrived a bit before opening time and had walked to the central station nearby in order to make use of the facilities, and there at the platform was the huge TGV train straining at the leash ready to make its run up to Paris. There is something so exciting and powerful about this train and having travelled on it once or twice, I know how thrilling it is to be racing across France at breakneck speed while sitting in comfort with a good book, sipping an excellent cup of coffee and ordering a hot meal. When the time comes for me to nip up to England to visit my mother, this will be one of my options, and if it wasn’t for the fact that I have to disembark at the Gare du Lyon and make my way across Paris to the Gare du Nord in order to link up with the Eurostar, it would be a very tempting trip. My next problem is that from St Pancras in London, I still have to make my way across London to Marylebone before another train trip out into the wilds of Buckinghamshire, so maybe the quick flight from Montpellier to Luton will be the best way to go even though it is somewhat boring by comparison.

We had been beavering away on the computers for nearly two hours when my cell phone bleeped and there was the message that we had been waiting for.

“France Telecom are happy to inform you that the problem on your phone line has been sorted out and your service is ready for use”.

We quickly closed up shop, nipped round the corner to the station and jumped on the first tram out to Sabblasou where the car was parked. Bursting in through the front door, we grabbed the receiver only to hear a big fat NOTHING!!

Jean is now on the cell phone to them and I am finding it hard to type as my fingers are crossed.

Something I did do while on the computer this morning was to email the shippers in Miami and try and shake them up a bit. Apparently they are dragging their feet with some paperwork that will allow the English shippers to expedite our delivery. It’s very hard knowing that you are blitzing someone and then realising that they are still fast asleep in bed and won’t get your blitz for another six hours.

The temperature has dropped considerably and with spells of rain and drizzle, we actually put on trousers and slightly warmer tops and carried an umbrella with us this morning. After four weeks of unbroken sunshine and excessive heat, it has been something of a relief to have cloudy skies, but it was strange to see the citizens of Montpellier clad in jackets and long pants instead seeing pretty girls, bare-shouldered and sun tanned, dressed in diaphanous tops and short skirts, and the men in their open necked shirts and open toed sandals.

Hey Ho. The man on the other end of the cell phone admits that we were sent a message by mistake and in fact there is still no connection. At least a technician is coming to the house tomorrow and will see if he can work out where the problem lies. As Churchill so aptly said, “This is nonsense up with which I will not put”.

For a while we sat in a heap like a pair of miserable hound dogs who had lost the scent. The annoying thing was that we had been getting on quite well at the little Internet Café and we had stopped what we were doing and had raced home only to be disappointed. Well, no point in sitting around doing nothing, so we drove back through Castries to the garden shop and although we couldn’t find the right size of piping to extend the irrigation system, we did find a couple of peach coloured oleander bushes to brighten up the entrance, a glorious blue plumbago which will wind its way up over the big metal frame in the front garden, a honeysuckle to put on the right side of the front door to match the one already working its way up the frame on the left, plus a few little ground covers. The rain held off just long enough for us to get everything into place and now we are resting on the terrace, telling ourselves that we can actually hear our vegetables growing in this lovely cool damp weather.

We have potted up a selection of cactus plants that we are going to take down to the cemetery later on if it stops raining. Jean was all for going now, but quite honestly, cemeteries are sufficiently doleful places even when the sun is shining, and right now the rain is coming down quite hard. He’s pretending it isn’t raining and has gone off to saw the big pile of wood into the right length to fit them onto the trailer. It is the payment to Michelle for the loan thereof and I think she’ll be wanting her trailer in September, and at the speed at which the weeks are whizzing by, I guess we had better be ready and loaded.

We also bought a packet of onion and a packet of spinach seed in the garden shop, and if all goes well I plan to have the deep freeze well stocked before the cold weather really gets going. Nothing like a steaming bowl of fresh vegetable soup when the mistral is howling and it’s bitterly cold outside. Now there’s a thought that never occurred to me while we were living in Miami!

It’s 6pm and just to confuse us, the sun is trying hard to come out even though there is still quite heavy rain. As my dear father used to say “It’s going to be a sunny night” after having watched the enthusiasm of the British weather man trying to make the best of a lousy day.

We zipped down to the cemetery and quickly scooped up the plaque engraved to the memory of Robert, Mamy’s second husband. It had a couple of chunks knocked off it, but Jean is quite sure that with a tube of superglue, he can put it to rights. We dropped off the cactus plant and a rather good pot of deep red silk geraniums. I’m not a great one for artificial flowers in a graveyard, but the battle against the hot dry wind here means that nothing natural will survive for any time at all. In many cases, there has been a serious amount of “gilding the lily” and the pots and baskets of plastic and silk flowers flow from every surface. I was quite glad that ours looked fairly realistic, but we are going to have to weight it down in a pot full of stones or the first blast of wind and it will fly off the Fagalde-Laurencont chest and end up decorating the grave of the mayor’s family who is two doors down.

“Snails” went up the triumphant cry that I was dreading. “Tons of snails in the garden – come and help collect them”

I thought of all sorts of excuses about not having any parsley or garlic on hand, but fortunately my beloved was taken off course by another animal.

“Quick – rescue mission needed” he called, and reckoning that this didn’t sound like something edible, I went out to find that he had discovered a very fat hedgehog who had fallen into the old cold frame. Curled up in a corner in a tight prickly ball, he was sadly situated next to the remains of a very flat ex-hedgehog who had clearly expired there a long time ago. With a spade, we carefully scooped him up and I did the only thing I knew about hedgehogs, and went and got him a saucer of milk. Five minutes later, he deigned to uncurl himself, stick his nose into the milk and then he stuck his nose into the air and off he sauntered under the bay tree hedge.

Maybe French hedgehogs have a more refined taste in milk or maybe the fact that the plate was plastic wasn’t good enough for him, but I have left the milk out just in case he returns. Either he will drink it, or else the neighbours cat who casually walks through our courtyard as if he owns the place will find that he has an unexpected treat waiting for him. He’d better not let Jean see him because with Jean’s well known apathy for cats, he might find he has another sort of treat waiting for him.

The End of Our First Month Monday 11th August

2008-08-22T08:18:00.000-07:00

Please note the angle of the sloping rock on the right

It’s four weeks to the day since we arrived in France, and for the first time, we have awoken to overcast skies and a good chance of rain. You can tell that we are becoming gardeners because we welcome this break from the heat and the baking sun and we know that our new lettuce plants will enjoy a day without having their sun hats on.

Today it is “make or break” with the internet. Jean has awoken with the bit between his teeth and the first gang on his hit-list is France Telecom. We have run out of patience with their “Just another 48 hour” nonsense that went on all last week, and as long as he can get past the recorded message and find an actual human being to take to task, we might get somewhere. Failing that, a search through the Yellow Pages has thrown up a couple of local guys who work with websites and who might be prepared to allow us to link into their systems and clear a bit of the horrendous backlog which is steadily growing.

We also need a quick trip to Leroy Merlin – the purveyor of all things handy for the house and garden, and once we have purchased another roll of irrigation hose, Jean can extend his watering capabilities to the new leeks. We now need to instigate a search to find things like broccoli, cauliflower, brussel sprouts and onions in the hopes that our deep freeze will be filled for the winter months.

Papy was clearly a great believer in fridges and apart from the excellent one in the kitchen, there are another three in the garage. Maybe he used one as a wine cooler, and although he seldom drank wine himself, he thoroughly enjoyed collecting bottles from the many and varied wineries that surround us. The first time I came to St Jean du Moulin and we were invited for lunch, I was told that if Papy liked me, he would go and open a bottle. I am happy to say that we got through three that day which I felt was an auspicious start.

My height is proving to be something of a problem. The French are not particularly tall as a nation, and I am finding that either my head is banging on the headboard, or my toes tend to get stuck under the baseboard of the bed. We have hopefully solved this problem by encasing the old mattress in two layers of thick sealed plastic that is filled with mothballs, and putting it back on the bed, and then putting the new one on top. Hopefully this will deter any of the beasties which had invaded it from escaping and making a return to their old haunts, and I can avoid getting my toes bruised. Underneath the bed is another single mattress that is being stored and a quick look at the whole edifice looks as though I am the star of the children’s story of “The Princess and the Pea”. From what I recall, she couldn’t sleep due a pea being placed under no fewer than a dozen mattresses, thus proving her royal lineage and status to the Prince and his busybody of a mother. I’m not that bothered about proving anything, but I would like to be able to drape my feet over the end of the bed, even though I might need a safety net to sleep so far off the ground.

A moment’s silence please. Jean has just spoken to France Telecom and a most concerned lady assured him that our problem was indeed grave but that the technicians (according to the records showing on her computer screen) had gone out no less than four times in order to do battle. She informed us that this very morning, they were returning to the fray and that in all likelihood, we would be connected between the hours of 9.30am and 11am. It is now four minutes to 11 and our breath is bated, but not actually held as we have the feeling that we have been here before. Just in case, we dashed into Castries – in the rain I might add – and quickly rounded up supplies including a packet of radish seeds.

Another crime to which I must confess is the purchase of a bottle of “Bonne Maman” strawberry jam. I have no idea who the original Maman was, but she sure knew what she was doing in the jam department. I also discovered butter that is not only salted, but which has actual chunks of sea salt embedded in it. What a delicious alternative to its’ rather bland unsalted relative.

The radish seeds are in the ground, the sheets are on the line and Jean is about to give himself a double hernia by trying to shift the most enormous block of stone which was unceremoniously dumped in the middle of the courtyard a hundred years ago. He has been eyeing it since we arrived and he has the look of someone who used to work at Stonehenge and knows just how to go about it. My back is fairly unforgiving, and if I pick up a large pile of branches which I did yesterday when I gave the oleander bush in the courtyard a stiff haircut, it quickly lets me know who is boss, so I am loath to offer my services. I think I have already mentioned that I have undergone two laminectomies, and I doubt that three is a lucky number on this occasion.

“It’s all a question of moments and levers” he is going to say, and already he has found a large metal lever and any moment he is going to use it. Admittedly it would be much nicer if it were level and in a position where it could double as a bench, but rather than have to call on the services of the French medical profession, we might need to call on the services of our new Son In Law who is a Mason, and who might know a bit more about the science of shifting it.

Ah thank heavens; darkening skies and rolling thunder have put paid to dry sheets and large blocks of rock and Jean has gone back inside to glare at the telephone which still fails to ring despite it being 11.45am. I wonder if they’ll let off those rockets and blow the hail out of the thunder clouds. It really is rumbling about up there but the rain is perfect for the grape ripening so there is good in everything.

It’s evening and it has rained seriously. The new plants are all standing to attention and everything looks washed and refreshed. We went for a drive around the village earlier this evening to see just how much it had grown since Jean knew it, and we found ourselves disappearing up cul de sacs, blind alleyways and little lanes that were totally new to us. At one stage we managed to find our way into the cemetery so we quickly removed all the dusty old plastic flowers and pots from in front of Mamy’s family burial chest and generally tidied it up and took a photo. I know she will be happy to think that we have taken the time to keep it looking nice, especially since it houses the remains of her second husband Robert. When he died in Liberia, she went to great expense to have his body returned to France, and although he never saw “Notre Coquille”, he did make it back to the village where Mamy had hoped that they would share their later years.

When we got home, Jean hauled out the pickaxe and with a few swift blows, he managed to loosen the row of rocks that made the driveway a very tricky manoeuvre to drive in and out of. Papy never drove and failed to see why the gap between the house and the edge of the rock border should pose a problem, and luckily until now, I have been able to depend on my mirror reversing skills to get in and out. With an extra six inches on either side now, I no longer have to worry about demolishing the house or ruining the paintwork on Michelle’s car, and we can now set about assuring the rest of the family that it is safe to enter the gates rather than park on the other side of the very narrow road outside.

Speaking of paintwork, we tried patching up the side wall where the plastic paint has fallen off due to the damp in the walls. The colour that we bought came out a rather pale cream instead of the warm beige illustrated on the tin, and I’m scared that the Paint Police might come round as the whole of Languedoc Roussillon has to adhere to a strict colour scheme. For all I know, the evening rains have washed it all off anyway and we are back where we started.

Just a postscript. It appears from one late afternoon phone call that the problem lies with “Le server” which refuses to co-operate with “la ligne direct”. According to the lady at Customer Services, we are assured that even as we speak, several technicians are sweating over the problem, refusing to accept defeat, and if we do not have a connection by 8pm tomorrow night, we are to phone back. “Rien de nouveau”! which means "Nothing new". (I wanted to say “Plus ça change” but Jean claims that it doesn’t mean anything). Goodie, that means another trip to Montpellier tomorrow morning. Now if we can just find the Arab gentleman with the internet café in the back streets of the city, we’ll be doing just fine. I hope we can find him because I’m taking along the cool bag as he is situated right next to Les Halles where the fish, cheese and meat market is. If we can’t email, at least we can eat well!

The Return to Maguelone Sunday 10th August

2008-08-22T08:10:00.000-07:00

Kate returns to Maguelone

“I miss Florida”. The words were wrenched from me as I literally took the plunge and hurled myself into the Mediterranean Sea. Wow it was cold – well at least it was cold when compared to the mild waters off the Florida east coast. But within about five minutes, my body had adjusted and I could close my mouth instead of keeping it in a surprised “O” and I began to enjoy the experience of actually feeling cool for the first time in ages. Jean had also decided to risk it and I could tell by the look on his face that he was having similar feelings at first, but after a while, despite being only a few in number, those of us braving the initial shock were thoroughly enjoying the water.

We weren’t exactly up with the lark this morning, but I was grateful that apart from a bit of creaking around my ankles, I really wasn’t too stiff after the long hike yesterday. A plan to head down to Maguelone beach had been mooted last night and we had sort of left it up in the air, but since there was yet another blue sky and light breeze to welcome us on waking, we quickly packed a picnic and had a good look at the map before heading off down the major A9 route south of Montpellier, and then swinging southwards down to the coast.

Maguelone is west of the flashy coastal resorts of Carnon, Palavas Les Flots and La Grande Motte, and instead of the spandex and ice cream brigade, it tends to attract the cyclists, campers and nature lovers. The last time we went there was nearly twenty years back and in those days, you drove along the sandy track that led behind the dunes, and if you were lucky enough to find a parking place, you simply scrambled up and over and you were on the beach.

The great thing about Maguelone beach is that it is a naturist beach and it is the first one that Jean ever introduced me to. My initial shock was dispelled very quickly when I discovered that everyone was basically wearing the same coloured swimming costume and were all minding their own business. I have subsequently become an aficionado of naturist beaches and we always had our favourite spot on Haulover Beach in north Miami.

We held Maguelone in such high affection that when we started farming in South Africa, our business name was Magellon, but never once in those far off days did I think that it would become our local beach. Now, on a Sunday morning if we get going early enough to beat the breakfast crowd, we can still be eating breakfast at 8am and in the water by 9am which isn’t bad going, considering that in the same amount of time, we can drive north and be high in the Cevennes Mountains enjoying coffee and a croissant. What a change from Florida where we would have to travel for at least seven hours to see a bump in the ground.

This time we discovered that Maguelone had undergone a bit of development, but once we had paid our 4 Euros for parking, we found that the beach was just as pleasant and unspoiled, the dunes were now being protected, and the sandy track had been paved and was in good use by a large number of cyclists.

Having soaked up the sun and enjoyed a swim, we felt that rather than wait to be baked alive on the beach, we would move on. We were just about to return to the car when the little tractor train pulled up alongside us, so we hopped aboard and took the free run all along the back of the beach until it reached the beautiful old Maguelone Cathedral situated on a spit of land in the Etang which is the name given to the inland bodies of water which make up the coastline in this area.

This wonderful old building dates back to the 10th Century, but during the unpleasant religious upheavals of the early 1800’s, it was decreed that the cathedral be pulled down and the stones used for building the Canal du Midi. Apparently a great number were used and areas of the cathedral were badly damaged, but skill, a lot of determination and finance have led to the cathedral being rebuilt exactly as it was, and it is easy to walk beneath the great vaulted roof and imagine the monks at prayer.

We decided that having had a very quick look at Villeneuve de Maguelone, we would take ourselves and our picnic home and enjoy it under our own tree in the courtyard, from where it was only a short walk to a cool dark bedroom and a good snooze.

The leeks are in! This is merely a passing note for the gardeners amongst you. The drip irrigation is working well and we rushed in at lunchtime and made little paper hats for the lettuce plants which were looking about as sunburnt as we were when we got home. They have perked up a treat and the courgette plants have all grown a new leaf since we planted them last evening. We replanted the mint underneath the dripping irrigation tap and roast lamb with mint sauce can’t be far behind. The beans that are supposed to be bush beans are now crawling up the sticks which we have provided, and I am keeping a close watch out for either Jack or a Giant or both.

My cooking is returning to its adventurous state and tonight there is a breast of chicken which has been flattened by beating it with a wine bottle (I know how it feels occasionally) and stuffed with mushrooms, peppers, onions, garlic and wine and of course the obligatory herbes de Provence. About the only thing that we don’t use these on are the bowls of cereal in the morning. The chicken is being cooked on the barbeque as I write, and the smells are becoming increasingly delicious so it’s goodnight from me and it’s goodnight from him.

Follow The Yellow Brick Road Saturday 9th August

2008-08-22T08:01:00.000-07:00

Kate on the road above Sauve

As I told you earlier, we now have four neatly dug rows, newly enriched with horse manure and good leaf mould, and all we needed were vegetable plants. We’d stopped off at the melon stall on the way back from our trip down to Lattes yesterday, and viewing the rows and rows of newly planted vegetables, we enquired about what we could expect to grow between now and winter. The owner of the stall looked at us rather bemused and said “Hiver (winter) what winter?”

Full of enthusiasm, we were up and doing early this morning and drove up to Sommieres which as you may recall, has its market on a Saturday. We found our same parking spot and right next to it was the plant man. I tried out the same question about Hiver and got the same reply, only this time, I could actually hear him thinking “stupid woman”. We stocked up with cabbage, leek, lettuce and courgettes for starters, and having stowed our loot in the back of the car, we went in search of our favourite boulangerie and bought fougasse and a fresh baguette for lunch.

A clever plan had evolved and we drove on north to Ledignan and spent a happy hour with Mamy before it was time for her lunch, and we then set off cross country for Sauve. This hillside medieval village is quite an historic landmark and AS SOON AS I HAVE INTERNET (hint hint) I will find out a great deal more about the place. We ate our fresh baguette and sampled our newly purchased olives and filled up our water bottles from the village pump and then started up the hill. By this time it was 2pm and the sun was hot but we were determined to be good tourists and really see the village.

Exploration takes place by dint of climbing up a series of stone steps which disappear round bends only to emerge into a street higher up. This will quickly lead to another stairway or a steep passageway which burrows under the buildings above. Upwards we climbed and I kept thinking that any moment we would stop and I would have a spectacular view of the roofs of the village and the valley beyond. Jean had paused to look at a map which gave various routes noted in red and yellow lines, but I was too busy trying to translate the information written alongside to pay much attention.

“Follow the red arrows” came the command so we dutifully set out along the top of the village, fully expecting at any moment to be directed back down a flight of stairs to descend to the lower streets. On and on we walked, and as usual, I was shod in my trusty Australian Croc flip flops while Jean was in his tough sneakers. Sliding from rock to rock, we trudged on and all the time, I knew that the sun was beating down on my left shoulder which meant that we were heading north west.

“Follow the red arrows” came the constant command and the track led on through the dense overhanging trees. Clearly this had been a main route a few hundred years back and occasionally we could see marks in the rock where cart wheels had dug in.

There comes a point in a walk like this where you either have to decide to turn around and retrace your steps, or bite the bullet and keep going in the hopes that eventually you will reach somewhere. It took us the best part of two hours and two large bottles of water, but the track finally started turning back and losing altitude, until we gratefully found ourselves on the outskirts of Sauve and within reach of an excellent restaurant which provided us with delicious ice creams.

We hadn’t actually seen all that much of the village despite our long hike, and promised ourselves that we would return on a slightly cooler day when perhaps we would find many of the little pottery shops and art galleries open. We drove homewards across the foothills of the Cevennes mountains, glorying in the fact that we no longer have to travel for hours to find any rising ground as had been the case in Florida. France is now our own back yard and the more we see of it, the more we love it.

An hour’s rest and I am proud to announce that the vegetables are in their beds and the irrigation system is working well and all is at peace. The Castries bulls have gone back to their farms and the sounds of fireworks and loud music from far across the vineyards have faded away. Tomorrow if the weather is nice, I think we might head down to the beach at Maguellone and dangle our toes in the Mediterranean. Who knows, we might even find it this time!

A Job for "Elf and Safety" Friday 8th August

2008-08-22T07:51:00.000-07:00

The bull railings for the relatively slim

So there we were last night, one moment standing at the bar, and the next moment standing behind a set of bars waiting to be run through by the horns of a big and extremely agitated black bull. Not your usual Friday night outing I grant you, but in this neck of the woods in August, it’s hard to go out anywhere on a Friday night and not have a bull involved.

August is Fete month and every little village and town puts on either a day, a weekend or a full blown week of dancing, drinking, bull running, more drinking, some more dancing and a lot more drinking.

We still had no phone connection, and we’d had an extremely frustrating afternoon which involved a fairly long drive down to Lattes where we had first bought our phone system. We tracked down the nice young lady in the agency and she smiled and shrugged her shoulders in a typically Gallic manner and said that sadly, although she had sold us all the bits and pieces, she was not in any way responsible for the provider of the actual phone connection. She did cheer us up slightly by sending France Telecom a brisk message telling them to get a move on with our connection, and then depressed us by telling saying that she had a friend who had exactly the same problem as us and she went for ages without a phone.

There was clearly nothing further that we could do, so we nipped into “Toys R Us” and bought a very snazzy car chair for our new grandson who is expected at the beginning of September. This was our only real success, because after this, we had a quick look at the map and thought that we were very close to the village of Maguellone, and with a bit of time to spare, a quiet early evening visit and maybe supper would have been nice. It wasn’t nice at all because it turned out that we were on totally the wrong road and were nowhere near to it, so we turned around and headed back to St Jean du Moulin feeling somewhat disgruntled.

An evening out was what was needed, so having downed a pizza at home rather than risk having to eat any part of a bull on a barbeque, we drove to the edge of Castries and nabbed the first parking spot we came to. This turned out to be a wise move since it then required us to walk into the old part of town. Usually we only see Castries from the main road that passes straight through it, and we found ourselves in a maze of narrow alleyways running between the 18th Century houses, and walking under the arches of the old aqueduct that runs through the region.

We could hear all sorts of excitement and clapping as we drew closer to the central part of the town, but rounding a corner, we found our way blocked by tall gates made from vertical red iron bars set about a metre apart. At first I thought we would be stuck and unable to explore further, but then realised that the general public (providing they weren’t wildly overweight) were simply slipping between the bars and going about their business.

It was evident that the bars were there to stop something larger than a human being, and an hour later, having stood on a piece of wall and watched the general populace fill up on large plastic glasses of beer, whisky and coke, there was a lot of banging and cheering, and the crowd in the centre of the square suddenly disappeared between the nearest set of bars. The doors of a nearby lorry flew open and a large very annoyed black bull emerged. His horns were covered in leather sheathes but the rest of him was as nature intended and he was distinctly fed up with life in general, and with the general public in particular.

For the next ten minutes, the bull rampaged around the town centre, bellowing and snorting and making every effort to impale whichever young man got in his way. He had plenty of targets to choose from and there were a few occasions when I wondered if the intake of whisky would win out over the speed at which the young man would clamber up the nearest lamp post or shin up the closest drainpipe. I watched in amazement as a handsome young man kissed two particularly attractive girls and then spun round and offered himself to the bull, only just managing to avoid the beast, before returning to kiss the girls once more. This could only be the Languedoc Roussillon, home of the troubadour and the razateurs.

After about ten minutes, the bull lost interest and had the wit to return to the truck from which he had descended, and if the organisers felt that he was running low on energy and anger, they would allow him to re-enter the truck, whereupon he would be replaced with a fresh bull. This went on for an hour but after that, we had just about had our fill of “Toro Toro” and people risking life and limb to tease the bull. Nobody got hurt, least of all the bulls, but we decided that a quiet walk back through the lamplit streets was the best way to go, and we just hoped that none of the bulls had escaped captivity and would confront us in an alleyway which was “sans drainpipes”.

The party must have gone on long into the night and we were awoken at about 5am on Saturday morning by the sounds of a group of young lads singing their way noisily up the road. They had obviously walked all the way from Castries, and judging by the noise, they were definitely the worse for wear. Bearing in mind that it must be about 10 kms to town, it’s a fair walk when you are sober, but probably nearly twice as far for them, as a straight line was certainly out of the question. Jean told me that while he was in France doing his initial training and his military service, he thought nothing of walking miles to a village where a fete was being held. Walking TO a party always seems fun, but it’s the getting back home which is often harder than anticipated, although being slightly anaesthetised does help.

Hints and Tips - Thursday 7th August

2008-08-22T07:31:00.000-07:00

Another local road - they all lead to another vineyard!

When moving to any new country, there are some things that can be learned from a book and others that you just pick up as you go along. I am becoming convinced that French cannot be learned from a book and I shall just have to pick it up as I go along. If the French themselves can't tell me why a thing is male or female then what chance do I have of untangling the maze and avoiding tumbling headlong into the pitfalls.

The first thing I discovered when visiting our local supermarket, is that it is no use searching in the freezer or fridge section for milk. This comes in boxes or plastic bottles and is stacked up next to the drinking water which is stacked up opposite the wine and pastis and whisky shelves. Apparently the milk is treated so that it can be stored without being cooled, but once I get it home and opened, I put it into the fridge just in case the process starts to reverse itself.

Baguettes are delicious but have a short shelf life. For the best ones, get to the local boulangerie before 10am and if you have missed out, then there is nothing to do but wait for the evening batch to be prepared. The baker shuts his doors firmly at midday and hopefully has an hour to put his feet up since the poor man has probably been up since 4am firing up his ovens and rolling out his dough. The shop will re-open after 4pm and the queue is usually forming already. Sliced bread bought in packets is reasonable but not great but at least it can be frozen which solves the problem when needing an instant piece of toast. (Ed's note. I did discover that baguettes can be frozen when super fresh but need to be thawed gently to bring them back to their former glory).

Bagettes aren’t the only option and there is the slightly harder but delicious round boule and the shorter and fatter banette, all of which have a wonderful crispy crust. I thank heavens that I underwent a fair bit of American dental work before requiring my teeth to cope with these delicacies, and I do understand why a quite a lot of tearing and dunking goes on with the older generation. Croissants can be dunked but pain au chocolat can get messy and is best eaten straight. I would suggest only one at a time but then who ever listens to me. Whoever invented Mille Feuille deserves some sort of a culinary Nobel Prize in my book.

Bottled water is a personal taste and we have tested a couple of brands which are definitely a bit “thick”, but we have settled for a very reasonable one that comes in a 3 litre bottle which fits onto a stand. All that is then required is a jug and a funnel and a packet of smaller bottles, and we simply rotate these into the fridge, thus cutting down a bit on the mountain of plastic water bottles that are recycled daily.

Recycling is something that the French take very seriously and we have two bins in the garage, one with a yellow top and one with a black top. The yellow top contains all the plastic, glass and paper products and is collected once a week, and the black one goes out twice a week and contains “yucky stuff”. This one has become known as "Smelly Belly" instead of it's proper name of poubelle. All that is required is a large number of strong black plastic bags, and with a little organisation, even the number of plastic bags can be reduced. Bins can only be put out after 8.30pm which avoids the village street looking messy, and everyone nips out early and brings them back in again once the jolly sound of the rubbish truck has passed.

While on the subject, plastic bags are not issued freely in the shops and everyone takes along their own shopping bags which makes so much more sense. The cashier puts everything through the scanner and it is then up to you to pack it into your bags, or re-load it into your shopping trolley (which has cost you the refundable sum of 1 euro to use) and then wheel it to the car. Nobody objects to this system and the cashiers seem to be cheerful and obliging.

I think back to the days of the huge Publix supermarket in Florida, and the elderly ladies who spent an hour blocking the aisles while agonising over the price of salmon, and who would then snarl at the cashier, snarl at the packer before insisting that he push her trolley out to the car and load the boot (or trunk as it was called), and then grudgingly part with a fifty cent tip. Having driven back to her condo building, the doorman would be obliged to haul the shopping out and load it into another trolley and wheel it up to her apartment, possibly fortunate enough to receive a tip (or another snarl). She would have been issued with a plastic bag for just about every item, and in many cases, not one but two thick paper sacks would have been used as well. The very thought of telling her to take these back to the shop and re-use them was utterly laughable, and the only tip she would have given you was to tell you to “B….. off”!

On a more delicate note, I have had the need to use public toilets three times since we arrived, and I notice that on all three occasions, that well known comfort, the toilet seat was missing. Whether this was by design or the result of theft I know not, but all I know is when you have undergone two lower back laminectomies, suspending yourself in mid squat isn’t the most comfortable way to go about ones ablutions and I would be grateful if a stout piece of rope could be provided. Thanks to the incredibly dry heat here however, I find that on most outings, I can behave like a camel and soak up a great deal of liquid without parting with any of it until I get home. I can only think that the torrents of sweat that pour from my forehead and get stuck behind my glasses are the alternative to needing public facilities.

We have just done our third run down to the municipal tip and it occurred to me that again I was the only woman on the scene. The neighbours are also busy cleaning up their large garden but so far I have not seen hide nor hair of the lady of the house, and it is the menfolk and the young lads who are sawing and sweeping and raking out the undergrowth. I have the feeling that the men look on in slight awe when they see me get on the other end of the offloading and then do the driving as well. I get the impression that French wives are considered to have a far more decorative role, and appearing in public with dirty feet, rubber gloves and leaves sticking out of their hair isn’t really the look that they are hoping to create.

And here is that final tip. Don't try and get anything done during the French summer holiday.

HINT HINT FRANCE TELECOM!!!!!!

Online in the Back Streets - Thursday 7th August

2008-08-22T07:19:00.000-07:00

The fountains of the Antigone

We are nothing if not determined. Clearly no phone bells were going to ring for us this morning so we drove as far as the Sabblassou car park at Castelnau Le Lez and hopped the tram into Montpellier in search of contact with the outside world.

With half the libraries in the region now closed for the summer holiday, we were aiming at one which apparently opened its doors briefly at 3pm and shut them again smartly by 6pm. It seemed a long way to go just for that, so we rode the tram into the city at around 10pm and walked through the park from The Corum to the Place de la Comedie. This is a lovely stroll under shady trees with some rather peculiar public art on display. The French are known to have a propensity for removing people’s heads, but do they have to insist on doing it to their statues.

We walked past the Musée Fabre and promised ourselves that we would pay a visit one day, but with the temperature slightly cooler and an absence of burning sunshine, it was a pleasure being outside and enjoying the light breeze. There had even been an early rumble of thunder and half a dozen drops of rain and the country seemed to be holding its breath waiting for a real downpour which never came.

The first order of business was a visit to Jean’s bank where he has been a client for almost as long as the bank has been open. The aim was to get a card issued for me, but without my passport, the nice man behind the desk apologised profusely and promised that if we called in another day, he could set the wheels in motion immediately. By this time, the idea of coffee and a croissant in the Place was starting to feel like the right way to go, but we found ourselves wandering down into the area where the old bus station used to be.

Somewhere in the area was a man who apparently had a great collection of West African Tribal art and more by good luck than good management, we happened to stumble across his shop. It was a real treat to be able to walk around the two floors of amazing pieces garnered from all over the West African area. Jean has been a collector from the years that he spent in Liberia, and we had our own museum on the farm which used to attract overseas visitors and locals alike.

Among the forty boxes of personal effects that we hope are going to appear soon are a considerable number of artefacts which have been travelling with us for the past fifteen years. We had to sell off some of the larger pieces while we were still in Africa, and it was so good to see the top quality Bundu Masks and the Dan statues that were on display in the Montpellier shop.

It wasn’t the smartest area of the city and the streets were getting noticeably more narrow and I found myself keeping a slightly tighter hold on my bag. I was cheered when we came around a corner to find a very impressive building directly ahead of us that clearly signified that we were returning to the more secure areas of the city.

“Wow, that’s mighty smart for this neighbourhood” I commented looking up at the delicate wrought iron balconies and the trailing geraniums.
“Have another look” said Jean, and I realised that what I was looking at was an entire building covered in Trompe L’oeil painting. With the natural tall cypress trees growing in front, it was hard to tell where reality ended and art began and it was just another of the delights that the city has to offer if you keep your eyes open.

We were zigzagging up a narrow street, dodging builders trucks and cyclists when I noticed an internet café sign in a window. Although lunchtime was looming, we had just enough time to check on our mail, and settling down at the computer amid a babble of Arabic language, we quickly dealt with the most important things that needed seeing to, and managed to finish in time for the proprietor to shut up shop at 12 noon sharp and head off for his couscous.

Having missed out on the coffee and croissant, food was now fairly high on the agenda, so we walked through the Polygone shopping centre and emerged into the Antigone development which is a spacious tree lined boulevard laid out in the old Greek style. Imposing buildings line the edges and there is a wonderful vista right down to the final triumphal archway at the bottom end, interspersed with fountains and Greek statues.

The pedestrian areas of Montpellier really do give the city back to the people, and the many and varied restaurants were doing a good trade in Antigone. We happily joined the throng with an order for omelette, steak hachè, frites and a nice glass of rosé wine, all of which cost a whole lot less and was a lot more tasty than many of the eateries we used to patronise in Miami.

Our feet were tired, it was getting hot again and the tram was right where we needed it to be, so we hopped aboard and were back home in no time, pausing only at the farm stall which sells the best melons ever. I must pause long enough to pat myself on the back, because we bought an aubergine the size of a small baby and I stuffed it with a mixture of minced pork, herbs, red peppers, mushrooms, onion and garlic and grilled the whole thing on the barbeque for supper, and it was utterly delicious.

After a couple of hours R and R and we were ready to work. There has been a rather jumbled item of machinery right next to the front door which apparently was installed to remove the calcium from the water system. However, it never worked particularly well and it was an eyesore, so Jean turned into the resident plumber and did away with it.

It was then time to climb into the compost pit and dig out the nice gooey stuff at the bottom and throw it onto the new rows awaiting the vegetable plants. This was topped off with a bagful of dried horse manure which was first mixed in what has become known as the “garden Magimix”. You can bet that my feet and the Crocs needed a thorough scrub that night, but the beans positively beamed at me when I went to bid them goodnight, so we are on the way to being self-supporting, at least in the vegetable line.

Trailing the Troglodytes - Wednesday 6th August

2008-08-22T07:10:00.000-07:00

"Friends Romans and Countrymen"

We had eaten supper, enjoyed a glass of wine and pretty much decided that the day was over but there was the nagging feeling that at 8.30 we ought to either go for a walk or a drive. Knowing our ability to set out for a short drive and find ourselves fifty miles north in no time, we settled for the St Jean du Moulin Quarry which is a mile down the road.

The quarry has a fascinating history and as soon as I can get on line, I shall tell you all about it, but for the time being, it makes for a wonderful scramble as long as you are dressed sensibly and have the right footwear. Needless to say, I was dressed in a simple cool floaty dress which caught on every single bramble, and I was wearing my trusty Australian Croc flip flops which are marvellous on the flat, but definitely not designed to stay on while climbing over blocks of stone, many of which had been carved into extraordinary shapes.

Jean recalls living here for a while some twenty five years ago, and at that time, the quarry was off limits to the general public. This of course made no difference to the locals who just climbed over the barrier and proceeded to dump their garden rubbish and picnic in among the trees and rocks. The village elders have given up the fight and have opened the area to both actors, musicians, artists and sculptors who have made fine use of the huge stage and the surrounding blocks of stone.

The stage has been built in the large amphitheatre which was formed from the workers steadily chipping out huge chunks of stone, many of which were then carted away to build such splendid edifices as the Opera House in Montpellier. In addition, a great number of the statues and grand arches which make Montpellier into the gracious city that it is today were built from the famous St Jean du Moulin stone, and I felt for the generations of strong steady horses who must have hauled such heavy loads the 18 kilometres to the city centre.

Modern day artists have been allowed to express themselves and foraging through the heavy bush and following the chalk pathways is often rewarded when coming across a massive carved wheel or a face of a sun God set in the rock. Down in a disused pit, a large stone hippo wallows in the long grass, and a row of coloured Indian totem poles stand out from the thick greenery.

I couldn’t resist walking out onto the large stage and proclaiming a little bit of Shakespeare to the surrounding woodland. A couple of years back, I was fortunate enough to be allowed to walk out onto the stage at the Globe Theatre in London, and on both occasions, I felt that it behoved me to pronounce, “Friends, Romans, Countrymen, lend me your ears”. I can imagine that there was a time when the Romans were not too far from here and probably had their eye on the great quality of the St Jean du Moulin stone for their roads and aqueducts which criss-cross the region.

For a while, we lost our way and I wasn’t too happy at the prospect of being lost out there in the fading light with nothing more than a large chunk of rock to act as a pillow for the night. However, common sense and a reasonable geographic bump brought us back to the central area, and we left the quarry behind in the fading light, with the sight of the large carved fireplace and elegant overhanging roof which must have served to keep the quarrymen warm in the depths of winter. It’s hard to imagine being cold during this long heatwave, but I daresay we will find out about it soon enough, and I just hope that like the internet, our boxes containing our winter clothes will have arrived by then.

I'm Starting to Feel Like One Of Them Tuesday 5th August

2008-08-22T05:56:00.000-07:00

The field nextdoor

When I say “One of them” I mean one of the locals as opposed to a visitor. We’re getting to the stage when we drive through Castries and see the traffic coming to a standstill, and say “It’s time these tourists went back home” and other similar comments. Every other trip we’ve had here, we have been one of those tourists and it’s a very smug feeling to come home to our little house in the south of France each day, knowing it’s not just for a three weeks holiday but forever if all goes well.

The lady at the Tabac looked hopefully at her pile of Daily Telegraphs when we passed by today, but I’m not in such desperate need of news that I am prepared to shell out 3.5 euros a copy each day. Any moment now, I can get on line and find out what John McCain has said about Barack Obama and whether Miami is ducking hurricanes and who is the new captain of the English cricket team; or maybe I will just look up the temperatures in Montpellier and see what Carla Bruni wore to the last official function.

I took my life in my hands today and asked the young man at Leroy Merlin if he had an ironing board. Not only did I do it in French, but he gave me a clear answer and didn’t fall about laughing. I was so impressed with myself that later in the day, I told a man that the municipal tip was open in the afternoon, but he looked a bit confused and turned round and drove back home.

The day started full of hope that the phone would ring and the internet would be connected, but instead there was a message on the cell phone informing us that a serious problem had been encountered with the line to our house and that we are asked to be patient for yet another 48 hours. This is the third lot of 48 hour patience that we have been asked for and try as we might, we just can’t work up the patience required.

Instead of waiting for another two days (by which time it will be the weekend again), we drove to the library in Castries to use the internet there, only to find that they had shut up shop until the 23rd of August. We phoned the main library in Montpellier and two of the smaller branches, to discover that they had gone the same route, but we have managed to find one branch open tomorrow in the city, so it looks as though we are going to make the tram trip in.

The afternoon was a whirl of excitement. We loaded the trailer with all the long branches cut from the bay tree in the garden, and took it along to the municipal tip or “decheterie” which was open this afternoon. It’s a very slick operation down there and having driven up a steep ramp, we could then offload the greenery into the maw of a large chomping machine which chewed it all up and presumably turned it into wood pulp which will then be sold off somewhere else. An efficient young man in a bright yellow luminous top was directing traffic, and a queue of vehicles discharged a vast array of items from lounge suites to old car tyres. Twenty years ago, this would have been dumped under every tree along every roadside, but the municipal tip has gone a great way towards cleaning up the countryside and it gets our full approval.

We were somewhat concerned this morning when our neighbours dog started barking, and after a couple of hours, we realised that it wasn’t going to stop. It was hard to see if the noise was coming from the house right next door or the one two doors along, but the sound was both wearing and worrying. Michelle had told us a horror story of how the dog next door had finally hung itself after being tied up on a short chain that got wound around a tree, and I hated the idea of some poor animal being tied up in the terrible heat.

I was just getting prepared to march along and find out what was going on when all of a sudden things went quiet and we haven’t heard so much as a yip since. Maybe the owners had been forced to leave their pet behind while they were on an outing somewhere in which case, I would be happy to offer my dog-sitting services if they find it necessary to leave it behind again. My greatest worry was that the neighbour was following the pattern of his predecessor and was planning on having a dog permanently tied up in the garden.

It makes us realise how spoiled we were while living on the farm. Our nearest neighbours lived over two miles away so any noise produced either by them or by ourselves was of little concern to anyone. We also went through a bad patch in Miami when someone in the apartment above us took to trotting about on her marble floors in high heels until 2am which nearly resulted in the re-opening of the Bay of Pigs episode. Peace and quiet is something that we both appreciate, so hopefully the episode with the neighbouring dog was just a one off.

It is now 6.30pm and the cigalles have declared it time for a sit down and a drink. There is nothing nicer than a large glass of half and half water and rosé wine with loads of ice cubes clunking about it in. We can justly rest on our laurels and admire the four rows neatly dug with the rotovator, and the absence of the huge pile of dried grass and dead leaves which has been removed from sight behind the garage. I have to confess that my housekeeping efforts in the garden are far more concerted than those inside the house, but I really will get to grips with the polish and the dusters before our boxes arrive.

We called into the pharmacie today and formed an orderly queue behind several ladies who were also purchasing a bottle of spray-on insect repellent. I was rather tempted to pull up my shirt and expose my stomach which looks as though I have an advanced case of smallpox, but I doubt it would have drawn much sympathy as we all seem to be in the same boat at present. Let’s hope that the end of the heat will see the end of the little beasties, but we do have to prepare ourselves for the possibility that the expected August rains will bring the mosquitoes to the party. So far they have been almost absent and I have to confess that there are relatively few flies around as well.

Jean has just come and shown me his feet. This would be an unusual occurrence were it not for the fact that they are so dirty that they look as though he still has his flip-flops on. I sat on a rock in the garden today and idly picked half a pound of soil out from under my nails while adjusting my red cotton headscarf which keeps some of the sweat out of my eyes, and thanked the Good Lord that I wasn’t lining up for a manicure in Aventura or agonising about getting my hair done. If we can achieve what we have achieved within three weeks, working in this kind of heat, just imagine what we can do once it cools down. We are off to Lunel plant market on Sunday morning to purchase winter vegetable plants to go into our potager, and for those of you keeping pace, the bean plants are preparing to flower which means that the harvest cannot be far behind.

There is a rather worrying postscript to the doings of the day. Even as I write, I can hear the cheerful voices of two real estate agents and two clients who are wading about in the long grass of the field next door. Clip boards are being waved about and visions of large houses are probably being discussed. I thought that Jean and I should prance about in the back garden and pretend to be either insane or incredibly noisy in the hopes that they would go away and seek for other pastures with better neighbours. I suppose this means that we had better get over the wall tonight and rescue as much horse manure as possible before the bulldozers come in.

Waiting for Godot - Monday 4th August

2008-08-22T05:42:00.000-07:00

Jean at work with the rotovator

I can’t recall the plot of the play but I do remember that it went on and on and became increasingly boring. Very similar to our wait for the internet. Jean phoned to customer services this morning and was assured that by this afternoon, we would have the equivalent of “a man up a pole” getting our line fixed. Of course in France, rather than ruin the landscape, a great number of the telephone and electricity wires are laid underground so presumably we will have “a man down a hole” doing what is required. It is now 5.30 and we are becoming concerned that the end of the working day is approaching (or else it has been so hot that the technician hasn’t even started his working day) and we are due for another disappointment.

Knowing that we would have no luck this morning, we drove down to St Aunes where the massive Le Clerc supermarket is situated. Just over the road is the equally huge Leroy Merlin which offers every gadget and gizmo that any handyman worth his salt could ever require. Taking into account that with the temperature knocking the 100 degree farenheit mark, we thought we had better delay purchasing our cool box groceries until we could make a quick run for home, so we tackled Leroy first.

Now that we have two neat rows of deeply rotovated soil which has been enriched with a few barrow loads of dried horse manure and some rich compost, we have to work out a better mode of watering it than Papy’s system which you may recall required him to be sitting on his flat rock with a sock on the end of his hose. When we were farming during one of the worst droughts ever seen in South Africa, we came across a very clever Israeli drip irrigation system which we installed in our small vegetable garden, and in no time at all we were picking, packing and freezing large quantities of green beans, spinach, radishes and peas.

We couldn’t find the exact thing in the irrigation department at Leroys, but we did come across a reasonable replica, so into the shopping cart it went, along with a piece of board, some small strips of wood and a tube of glue.

When our erstwhile employer told us to seek out large expensive offices in Miami, he also required us to furnish them, and by the time we had pulled all this together, he was paying out somewhere in the region of $15,000 a month for Jean to sit at a desk. The piece of wood, the strips of edging and the glue came to a grand total of about $6.00 and will work perfectly to hold Jean’s laptop while he continues to create a very useful monthly income from his own internet business.

We were determined to stock up with sensible items at Le Clerc. The fridge was empty and the deep freeze totally devoid of any form of sustenance so we trawled the aisles, loading up on cereal, chicken breasts, sausages, cheese, bread that could be frozen, fresh fruit and vegetables and the usual gallons of drinking water. Only when we got to the check-out did we realise that somehow a large box of pain au chocolat and two mille feulles had managed to sneak into the trolley without our noticing them. They were hiding behind a box of apricots and four large red peppers, hoping that they wouldn’t be noticed until it was too late. Well we showed them and promptly ate two of the pain au chocolates while pushing the trolley across to the car!

The parking at Le Clerc is well worth a mention. Acres of carpark are set up underneath roofing which not only supplies desperately needed shade for the vehicles, but which also supports large solar panels that in turn provide all the electricity for the supermarket. How clever is that?

I had a bad night last night. Not only were the beasties attacking me again, but I had a lousy backache. I suppose the backache could have been brought on by lifting a large bag of empty paint tins out of the trailer, loading a stack of branches into the trailer, helping Jean lift the rotovator into place, and forking over the compost pit. It never occurred to me to crawl out of bed and spray the sheets with bug spray and then stumble to the bathroom cabinet and find a pain killer.

The English couple that we met through Michelle told us that whenever anyone is coming from England to visit them, they always request large amounts of Nurofen Plus. I sympathised with them and said that whenever I visited my mother while I was living in America, I would go from chemist to chemist in the High Street and stock up. Why is it that the Americans and the French find it necessary to restrict our access to the best pain killer in the business, but you can buy it over the counter in England? If we’ve got the wit to stop smoking and restrict our alcohol intake, surely we are big enough to take it easy with the iboprufen.

We have quickly realised that whereas in the large supermarkets of America and England, it is possible to purchase just about any sort of “do it yourself” medication that the pharmaceutical companies have dreamed up, here in France, you have to find a Pharmacie and grovel to the pharmacist for day to day remedies like aspirin and nasal spray. You can buy as much pate de fois gras and other liver exploding items as you want in any supermarket you care to visit, but to purchase the antidote, you have to find parking and stand in a long queue to be issued with the much needed little yellow pills. You can buy wine in a box so large that it takes two of you to lift it, but you try and buy the pain killers that will offset the headache that ensues from trying to lighten the box too quickly.

There seems to be two sorts of pharmacies. One of them looks highly medical until you start to realise that the entire shop is given over to beautifying the body. Care of the corps in France is a full time job and every little village will have at least two hairdressers and probably a small salon which specialises in soothing, smoothing, massaging and generally pandering to the body beautiful.

French women really do have that certain something and I tried hard to work out what it was while we were at the féte champêtre. Accessorizing is half the trick and a good piece of jewellery or a carefully worn scarf can turn what appears to be a very ordinary dress into a fashion statement. Of course the sun tan is very big here still, and on the whole, women keep their figures neat and trim, and the combined factors certainly do create a very polished look.

As far as the men go, a loose shirt, a comfortable pair of chinos and what Jean insists on describing as Nigerian taxi driver shoes seems to be de rigueur but secretly I think they get away with it knowing that everyone is going to be looking at their wives rather than at them. Of course in some cases, a sun tan, a good haircut and the right dark glasses do go a long way to presenting the magazine image that we ladies occasionally have in our minds.