The old barbeque area minus the woodpile, the wheelbarrow and the trailerWe’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.
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.
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