Going, going.......

We're packed. Really. We have the thick , warm, woolly clothing, which means there will be a heatwave in Austria. We have the many and various medicaments...blood thinners, heart slowers, eye drops, paracetamol, yes, we need almost a separate suitcase. We have one or two books as I can't cope without some reading material and I don't read German. What else? Small opera glasses, camera, 2 mobile phones, neither of which is likely to work. Passports, tickets, both of which I shall have to check fifty times to make sure I've got them.
And that's it. Apart from handing our keys to our lovely friends who will live in to look after the house,there is nothing more I can do. Well.....maybe just dust round, water the plants, check the heating system.......
No. Enough. Off to , hopefully, a crunchy, snowy Christmas, with log fires and Carols in little village churches. to Beethoven in the Mozarteum. To Christmas markets in the snow, sipping gluhwein.
I'll let you know how it really was when we come back.

Not ready

Oh look.....an empty suitcase. And it is still, um, four days till we leave for Austria. Friends keep saying kindly 'I expect you're all ready to go arent you? Packed, and everything?'

Not sure if I'm being laid back or just avoiding making decisions, but suspect it is the latter. There are little piles of THINGS on the spare bed, passports, tickets, very thick socks, and suddenly I'll have a brainwave and add...a camera, or binoculars. Why binocs ? Dont know but surely they'll come in useful up a snowy mountain. Wont they?

I have done some forward planning, most of which has consisted of saying, 'Do you want to take these thick cords?' (answer, 'Dont really mind') I have washed some thick fleeces, and found woolly nighties, the sort that Grandma used to wear, only to be told, 'For goodness sake, we're not going to the Arctic'. Well, I feel the cold. Terribly. Could I fit a hot water bottle in? Now there's a good idea.

I shall do my usual, which actually I'm quite good at, that is to have one totally focussed hour, and actually put things in cases, check, double check, and close the things. Open again just to make sure there are enough knickers/socks/fleeces, did I pack thick tights...Half of the contents will return unused, I know.

Coffee

Coffee is a sort of necessity for me, am I suffering from addiction, I wonder?

Sometimes the smell is even better than the taste, that lovely warm wafting scent that says..mmmm, coffeeeeee.

I wa surprised to find out that coffee was actually discovered in the 9th Century in Ethiopia. The story is told of a shepherd who had very lethargic sheep. One day he found that they were eating red berries of a little bush, which apparently made them quite hyperactive! Coffee berries. Grown on an evergreen bush called 'Coffea'.

Socially, the drinking of coffee became popular in the 17th century , when the Coffeehouse cult came into being, particularly in Vienna. In Oxford, as early as 1650, there was a coffeehouse, run by an importer of the beans. I wonder if its still there.

When I was at College we drank 'coffee' by the bucketful, only then it was Nescafe. We kept awake, we studied with a mug of it by our elbow, we drank it out of choice. Then all of a sudden, coffee bars opened, and we learned what real coffee tasted like! Percolators came into being, filter jugs, cafetieres and espresso machines. What had we missed?

I couldnt believe it, when recently on Brittany Ferries, I tripped into the Salon de The, asked for a small coffee....and got, yes, a mug of Nescafe. This, on a French boat? Mon Dieu. When in Canada, I am always amazed by the way the country seems to run on Coffee! Wherever I went, whether to the garage, the hairdresser, the Dr, there was always a cafetiere, and the offer of fresh coffee. It's the first thing that a waitress brings before you order anything.

The 'pause cafe' which we enjoy round about 11 am is slightly foreign to the French. They dont stop in working hours. Well, actually, they do, when it's to drink my coffee. The bars are usually full of men, drinking a glass of wine, a beer, but only occasionally, a coffee.

There are too many choices now, and confronted with latte, skinny latte, capuccino, and all the other things, I am bewildered. Just give me a petit creme, please

Decorations

The shops are suddenly full of Christmas decorations...yes, I know you've had them in the UK since August, but we are a little slower here, a little more restrained....

Each garden centre and DIY shop has an area full of plastic Santas with their obligatory ladder (to be fixed on outside wall), garlands, anything that will light up and drive your neighbour mad, and a distinct lack of cribs or things of a 'spiritual' nature.

Any day now, Monsieur G. next door, will fill his garden with twirling lit up things, deck every bush with more lit up things, and put the aforesaid S.C on the wall. Neighbours from all over the village come to look. The lights illuminate the whole of our lane!

I think back to my childhood. We spent days making paper chains, painstakingly sticking colours together, hanging them all over the house. We painted walnut half shells silver and made little boats with masts and sails for the tree. We cut out angels and hung them by windows. We were so creative. Tinsel was a huge treat, there wasn't much around then. We had, I remember, a sort of coloured paper folding bell thing, which hung with streamers across a room. It must have driven my minimalist mother up the wall! But we had such fun.

Today's decorations are very beautiful and very expensive, or rather tawdry. For me, less is definitely more, and my 'tree' this year is just a few branches cut from the birch tree, painted white, and hung with simple corn decorations.

Customer service?

Me; 'Hello, I'm ringing you , from France, about a subscription to a maga.........'

CSA (customer service 'advisor') Which one?

Me; It's called Gardens Illustrated. We havent received the..........

CSA; Whoss the problem then?

Me; The last two editions, November and December, haven't arrived.

CSA; Bear with me....I'll put you on hold. (comes back around 5 mins later, knowing I'm ringing from France, to tell me) They've been sent.

Me; (very patiently) They may have been sent but they have NOT arrived here. This is not the first time it has happened.

CSA; I'll just check the address then.....wot? Can you spell that? Right, so I'll put you on hold for a minute.......... (returns some hours later to tell me ) they've been sent out.

Me; Yes you told me that , but THEY HAVE NOT ARRIVED HERE.

CSA; Oh. (Pause while her brain ticks ever so slowly) Well, we'd better send them again then. Can you just give me your address again...wot? Spell that? Orright then, we'll do that for you.(said with the air of one conferring a great favour)


The annoying thing is that over the last few months, our little local shop has started selling the said magazine! The subscription , needless to say, won't be renewed.

'The hills are alive..........'

The Sound of Music strikes again!

We decided to have a runaway over Christmas. The place my husband wanted to return to was Salzburg, where we stayed many years ago during the same period. It is unimagineably lovely over Christmas, often covered in snow, yet bright and sunny too.

Airports arent the easiest place when eyesight is fading, so we had a look at train travel, and found that we can get from Brittany to Strasbourg during the day, and then onto the night train direct to Salzburg, arriving early in the morning. With a private sleeper booked it means we dont have to share a cabin, quite a normal thing on French trains.

We arent staying in the city , but in a village about a quarter hour by train (running every half hour) from Salzburg. We chose to go back to the same village in where we stayed before , e mailed the owner, who was delighted to offer us a very good rate for the stay. The village has plenty of shops, hotels, cafes, and is set at the foot of the mountains, so one can walk, explore, shop, or just potter off by train. We want to revisit Hallein, the next village, where Silent Night was written. On Christmas Eve there is a gathering in the square outside the house, and everyon listens to the sound of a choir , in the house, singing the original arrangement of the Carol. It is magical, snow crunching underfoot, and gluhwein passed around the crowd.

We've booked two concerts in Salzburg, which will be lovely, and plan to drift through the Christmas markets, listening to the strains of Mozart which seem to cover the city at any time of year.

Yes, we shall miss the family, but this might be the last time we can journey comfortably. We'll see them all in January when we go back to the UK for a visit.

A PS to yesterday.

PS.
Tonight I had a strange phone call. A croaky elderly sounding voice said, in English, 'Dr Le bon'.

No, sorry, said I, you have a wrong number.

The voice croaked again, 'No this IS Dr Le bon. I 'ave a cold'.

Desperately apologetic me listened, as best I could, to him telling me..'Your 'usband's blood is too thin. 'E must take the tablets in a different way' and explained all.

Poor guy, I felt so sorry for him, and sorrier still that I just hadnt recognised his voice when he had taken the trouble to ring.

Our village nurse

Waiting for Nursie ' to arrive. It's 8.45 am and she is usually here by 9. She comes to the house once a fortnight to take a blood sample to check on the thick/thin ness of my husband's blood. It's all part of the keeping his heart healthy etc. But arent we fortunate that she comes here rather than we go and wait for ages in a surgery.
Murielle is a sweetie, and has started her day at around 6 am. She goes to the housebound and elderly in the village, getting them up, dressing them and even seeing that they eat their meal. Either she or the second nurse goes in at lunch time and also in the evening to help them to bed. This means that for as long as it is ppossible they remain in their own homes.
The family support is very good too, young and middle aged look after the elderly, bring meals, take them out, and generally care about their quality of life. If there is no family then the nurse takes over, but also neighbours keep a watchful eye open.
And..here is her little car, racing up the drive................
Slightly later......she has been and gone, we moved on to the next appointment which was with the optician! Murielle asked us in fractured English which she likes to practice, what we were doing for Christmas, were we like most English people, going back to UK? No we arent, but we are going away.
Off she tripped, calling 'Bye bye', and promising another visit in 3 weeks time. These nurses are so devoted to their jobs. They dont dress in a uniform , just jeans and sweaters, practical for what they have to do with the elderly.
I hopw we never need their services in that way.

Amish people

I am fascinated by the Amish people. I'm not sure why, perhaps it is their quiet surety of the value of the simple life, perhaps it's the beauty of the quilts they produce. Whatever, their whole lifestyle is one I envy in a way.

I am sewing cross stitch pictures which are based on the Amish and their home life. I plan to do one for each grandchild, that is, seven, but so far have only completed four. I love the pair called Grandfather's Barn and Grandmother's house. Looking into them one sees all sorts of tiny objects, a broom against the house, a pie steaming in the window, a basket of fruit gathered that morning. The slowness is there.

The Amish are often known as the Plain people. They have been using horse drawn power from the beginning, no tractors, no cars, but horses and buggies. I've seen the near 'relations', the Mennonnites ,driving these in remote Canada. Time passes and the old ways live on, life continues in the same way as it did for their forefathers.

They have a devout faith, believing in literal interpretations of Scripture. They feel that to be wordly can keep them away from God, and therefore embrace the ways that might seem to us to be old fashioned and time consuming. The strict adherents don't have television or radio in the home, feeling that it is a modern intrusion into family life. I think I could agree with that.Their clothing is often unpatterned, as are their beautiful glowing quilts. Yet they are not altogether apart. Teenagers are given 'running around' years, when they mix freely, they have 'gangs' , and can make up their minds where their lives are going.

Maybe we might feel that they are too separate from the world. And yet their separation must strengthen their communities? They seem to have a huge sense of community, living together as good neighbours, helping each other where necessary.

I wonder if I feel a sense of envy in their devotion to family and community life. I would love to visit Lancaster County, not to peer at them like rabbits in hutches, but to see the quilts, to visit their villages, and to try to be a part of their life for a short while.

Cookery books

I have a shelf of cookery books, collected over the years. I grew up totally unable to cook, mainly due to the fact that my Grandmother was the dedicated cook in the house, and my mother, an artist, would far rather leap us both onto our bikes, pack picnic and sketch books and off we would go for the day. Over the King Harry Ferry to St Mawes, perched on rocks, munching a sandwich and sketching at the same time.

But the time came, years later, when my ex mother in law arrived with a chicken. Not a chicken as we know today from the supermarket, but a chicken complete in all its parts. To me, very newly married, it was an unknown quantity. 'I'll be round for lunch tomorrow , dear', she said. Sat and considered the bird, which looked back at me, moribundly. Head, feet, innards, the only thing it didnt have was feathers, thank goodness. so, I did what any sensible girl would do...dragged it round to the next door neighbour, and admitted I hadnt a clue. I learned how to cook a chicken that day.

After that I became interested in cookery books, and my very first one was from a book club in the 1960s, French Country cooking by Elizabeth David. What a lady! Her books arent really for the novice but I tried, I tried again, and produced some very edible meals.

The collection grew, and grew. I began my own collection of recipes, cut out, scribbled, written into a book which , battered and burnt, is still with me, pages falling out, but much loved. It has recipes called..Mum's flapjacks, Sue's fruit cake, Jen's parsnip soup, recipes from family and friends, over many years. On her marriage my daughter started her own book, copying many of the old family recipes from mine.
My mother gave me my Grandmother's Mrs Beeton, a fairly early publication. I collected old cookery books and new, anything I could find of Elizabeth David's was snapped up. Books on French cookery, Meditteranean food, world wide dishes, vegetarian meals. One day I realised I hadn't got a sensible everyday cookery book which told me how to make jam, so a daughter in law gave me the Good Housekeeping book, which now has pages stuck together and slightly torn where they have been pulled apart.

I guess, as for many people, the Delia books have been a great favourite. They are 'cooking with one syllable words'. Rick Stein sits on my shelf too, and maybe he will bring out a new book on his Meditteranean journey. He mentioned a writer called Patience Gray, I wish I'd known of her as her food sounds wonderful, simple , local home grown, wild food. She said apparently ,'Poverty, not wealth, gives the good things in life significance '.

I dont use all my books by any means, but love to dip in and out, savouring the ideas, if not the actual meals. And I cant resist the quick look around a bookshop...Cookery section....that person you see 'smelling' the gorgeous food photos will be me.

November 11th

It's strange in France not to see people wearing poppies this week. We see them on Television, but not in real life..unless the person is English. Explaining the poppy symbol to the French is interesting, as the fields of Flanders don't seem to have the same meaning. Their flower for this day is the Bleuet, or cornflower, and they wear a little brooch or flag on the day. They will have a ceremony around the war memorial in the village, after which there will be a mad dash to the bar for drinks , courtesy of the Mayor.

This year, as the 11th falls on a Sunday we wont be in the village, but will have the ceremony at our Anglican church , with wreath laying, and all the somehow comforting words. My husband is reading the Act of Remembrance which ends with the immortal words...

'Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. '

At the going down of the sun and in the morning

We will remember them'.

Watching some of the first world war very old soldiers the other evening I was sad to think that our children and grandchildren will never have that same knowledge that we who were alive in the war years have. Glad also that hopefully they will never know another world war, but sad because I'm not sure if young people have any concept of the lives that were thrown away in that terrible time. Though I do remember my grandchildren being very moved by a school visit to the 2nd World War beaches. I know we teach 'War' in schools, but is it the same?

Tell me, do your children and grandchildren understand the sacrifices?

Chatting

Following on from Letter writing comes a few thoughts about 'chatting'. What fun it is! I was introduced to Yahoo Messenger by one of the grandchildren, of course, some years ago, and have had lengthy chats with people all round the world since then.
I still can't take it in, all those words flying out of my mind and arriving immediately on someone's screen.
But once again, I do find it isnt a substitute for the letter. My chatting typing and spelling is awful, words muddled up, odd variations on spelling...teh, te, hte... all because I'm being too quick. I suppose it's a form of texting, you are trying to be quick enough to answer the person you are talking to before they come back on the screen.
I dont have time to think out a reply, and sometimes write things which I wish I'd considered more. But...it is just a fun thing most of the time.
So clever of AA to give us a new toy!!

Letter writing

Don't you love having a real letter? I do, and although I send lots of e mails I still enjoy writing a 'proper letter'.

There was always a rule as I grew up, that thank you letters had to be written within a week of receiving the gift. Sometimes our letters were a little bit forced, but we were never allowed to get away with 'Dear Auntie, Thank you for the present. With love.' Always we had to write a little about what we had done, were doing, anything to make our letter a bit more interesting.

Now I see that one can buy multi choice letters for one's children, where they tick the relevant box instead of having to think.

Imagine if some of the wonderful letters had never been written. Think of Beatrice Potter, writing to Noel. We would have missed all the lovely tales and drawings of her animals . Letters written in the war years are so poignant, people didnt seem afraid to reveal their feelings.

I've been going through some letters written to my children's late great grandmother on the death of her husband, a Scot of some note. They are exquisitely penned, thoughtful, formal , yes, but also incredibly real. They range from a letter from Dolly Gladstone (florid handwriting!) to a little missive from one of her staff, which begins 'My dear madam, I dont like to intrude...'

Each one is on a black edged piece of writing paper, each one is a model of concern, of friendship and of genuine mourning.

My children used to write to Father Christmas every year. Do they do that now..or do they send an e mail??

Knock knock

They came, the little dears! A small collection of strangely garbed infants trekked up the lane, not entirely in the dark as we had left a lantern burning by the gate. Horrible devil masks and tridents at the ready, they shrieked as I opened the door. Probably the equivalent in French of 'Trick or treat'.
I had the necessary KitKat chocolate balls on the dresser, and not just one, but four carrier bags were opened for me to put the sweets in! Thanking me charmingly they rushed off to 'terrorise' another neighbour.
Talking to our shop owner yesterday about it all, she said in a slightly disapproving manner...'Of course, here, we treat the day with great respect, all the shops will be closed as it is a religious day. NOT like in England, I'm sure.' Yes, correct, Beatrice.
She then went on to say 'And what's more, the tradition (that the English started, unsaid) of trick or treat is already dying out here too'. And at that moment two small costumed devils burst into the shop and murmured that they'd come for sweets please. And were given them, with a smile!

Toussaint

Tomorrow, October 31st, is Halloween. Thursday 1st November is the day when the French traditionally visit the graves of their loved ones, placing flowers on them. This is known as Toussaint, or All Saints Day.

The most popular flowers are Chrysanthemums, very much associated with death in France. These plants are grown by the thousand for this day, and at any garden centre you will see hundreds of pots of enormous plants, all colours, beautifully shaped, and some even grown in an arrangement of different and rather lurid colours, usually bright yellow teamed with purple. The cost of these is high. 35 - 45 euros is normal for a large pot.

I find it a little sad that all these flowers will be bought and just left to die...but it is their tradition. Thursday will be a holiday here too, when families get together to talk about the departed members.

It is only in the last few years that the American version of Halloween has crept in here, and I think it came about the same time as MacDonalds, when children were given rather horrid little Halloween toys. The French aren't really sure what is being 'celebrated', but spend a lot of money on costumes for the children, witches, ghosts and so on. We have the occasional timid knock at the door , an apologetic mum with a child, saying she hopes they arent bothering us! A far cry from the sometimes vicious Trick or Treat. We keep a few bags of goodies to give them, but I'm sure they are wondering what it's all about.

I have 'borrowed' the lovely photo from Rhian, another local blogger, as I hadnt time to take one myself.

Here's one I made earlier

Sadly most of my quilts have been made for people, family, grandchildren.... So I dont have them anymore. I have never

got round to making one just for me.

This cushion was made for a friend's 70th birthday, to go with her green and yellow bedroom. The design is called Dresden Plate, which is self explanatory I think. It is quilted with a half fan design on the corners and two rows of stitching around the 'plate'.

I love the way all quilt blocks have names. There is often a historical meaning to them. One is called Sherman's March, another Hole in the Barn door. Yet another is Ohio Star. so very many have connections with the slave trades, with the early American battle history. My on -going project...and how long has it been on going one might ask.....?? ..is to finish a Schoolhouse wallhanging, made up of little houses in a very traditional design. It is done in shades of blue, my colour! One day I may even finish it.

Patchwork time.

Well, once again it is Patchwork time. A friend and I run a small group teaching patchwork and quilting. There are only 6 ladies, but that's nice as we have time to talk to everyone.

It reminds me of the original quilters groups, the brave women who accompnied their men, with their families, on the long treks to America and Canada.

Can you imagine the hardship that those first Mayflower passengers endured as they came to form a new nation? The first settlers lived in one or two rooms in primitive conditions, bug infested and smoky homes with one fire place for warmth. Women played a huge part in the domestic lives of these families, growing food, sewing spinning and weaving, making household items such as candles, and of course, rearing children.

Fabrics were scarce. All they had was what they haad brought with them. Mens shirts were cut up to make a warm quilt for the children to sleep under. Get -togethers such as barn raisings were a time when the women would meet and sew, would exchange fabrics and patterns, would socialise. Quilting became part of a social life.The quilting bee was a time when the women were free to just enjoy time together, whilst still creating something of use.

I have a passion for fabric, and have carted boxes of the stuff from house to house. The memories evoked by one piece of fabric can be so intense, and I cant easily part with my collection!

Our little group are so excited when they learn a new technique, when a quilt is almost finished, when a block turns out perfect. It is wonderful to pass these ancient skills on. It is even said that the coat of many colours worn by Joseph was perhaps a patchwork garment!

PS; Can you see why i want to make a quilt based on Villandry?

Nearly Christmas?

I know it's nearly Christmas when I see the gigantic boxes of chocolates arrive in the supermarkets. And there they were yesterday. I suppose it's not bad, considering England has been selling Christmas since August, but I could do with another few weeks without the commercial hype.
It is a much lower key approach here, as the main celebration is at New Year, but I have noticed that over the last few years things have ratcheted up a gear or two. You can now buy Christmas cards, wrapping paper and stick on tags in the Presse shops. So far, no Christmas crackers in our area, tho maybe Un Peu has seen them?
The Garden shops are the most Christmassy, and will soon be setting out their selections of every possible sort of decoration, streamers, beautiful glass balls, rather horrid plastic cribs, singing Father Christmases, et al.
Our first Christmas here was in 1995, when we were amazed to see......nothing. A few days before Christmas one shop put some gold paper in the window, but that was all. Nowadays, the towns do decorate, trees tied with big glitterpaper bows line the streets in town, and the very favourite thing appears on houses. That is----- the blow -up Father Christmas, usually perched on a ladder and attached somehow to the roof or the wall of many houses. Round about February they are still there, somewhat deflated and looking very sorry. Some houses have adopted the Canadian form of decoration, strings of lights all over the roof, the walls, gardens lit up with brightly coloured flashing lights, Santas, reindeer.....
We spent a Christmas in a little town in Austria one year, where there were no decorations. On Christmas Eve we walked to midnight mass at the local church, and gasped in wonder to see every grave lit by a little red candle, fir branches draped around the graves, and the path lit up with tiny lights to show us the way in. As we came out, there were trumpet blasts from the tower , echoing in the cold stillness of the night. Wonderful.

Support

Support, what is it? A prop? A shoulder? Elastic stockings?
No idea why I should have been thinking so much about the meaning of support lately. On this site there is a huge level of help, listening ear, advice, propping up. Yet, we are, most of us, virtual strangers. Does that matter? Dont think so. I have a friend in Australia, with whom I have been corresponding for 20 years. We've never met, though we share a love of needlework, and talk by phone, send each other fabrics, and get on very well.
She was the one person who wrote all the deeply supportive words when my mother died. So many people had written, rung, but her words meant more to me than any.
And now, she needs support. Her husband has cancer.
All of a sudden there are at least 4 people I know, to whom I can be a 'prop'. Two with husbands with cancer. One with a marriage breakdown. One recently widowed.
I can be the listener, the receiver of anguished howls, calmer of sobs. I never offer advice, it's not what I believe I should do. Support is often nothing more than listening. Sometimes seeing the slightly funny side of a problem, sometimes just remembering together the lovely times that will never be again.
But it is interesting that it seems to be a see saw. The supporter needs be able to give. The supported to receive. And it seems to come turn by turn, so that we are free to help another and they to help us , at just the right time.

Homework, a week away.

It is such a joy when you find a perfect B/B. I spend hours gazing at websites, re reading French guide books, looking at Gites de France books, and still have to take a chance.

Well, this one, on our week away in the Loire Valley, was as perfect as one can get. It is called Domaine du Heron.(www.domaineheron.com)

The house is in a tiny village on the River Vienne, which joins with the Loire near Chinon. You can see the river in the photo, and one of our mornings was spent walking along the bank into Chinon, 5 mins by car, but 40 mins by walk. There are otters, herons and kingfishers here, and each morning I hung out of my bedroom window to watch the fishermen in their flat bottomed punts, sitting quiet and still on the river, waiting.

The house itself was built in 1840 and has been in the same family ownership ever since. They are vignerons, and we spent a happy morning with Jean Louis as he took us to see the late vendange at his cousin's vineyard. It was, of course obligatory to buy a case or two!

Our hostess could not do enough for us, and was one of the most charming ladies I have met. We booked originally for 3 nights , and stayed for 7, spoilt rotten with delicious meals, aperitifs in the garden, all kinds of advice about the area, and just that indefinable welcome that makes you feel you are staying with friends.

Unlike the Japanese visitors, of which there were many, we didnt feel we had to see every single chateau. Just one or two, the most lovely of which was Villandry, a house that I could imagine living in. Colours are gentle, rose painted porcelain adorns the walls, and oh the gardens! Laid out in a deliberate patchwork style they are a mass of colour, of interest, and of amazement especially in the vegetable area, where ornamental cabbages hustle up against cardoons, against aubergines, against chillis.

Chenonceau, built out over the river, was lovely, with another beautiful garden, that of Diane de Poitiers, all pink and cream. Camilla, you would love it!

Chambord is far too big for me, not at all attractive and looks as though someone had a fetish about chimneys.....but , I can appreciate that it is awesome in its own way. It has a strange inner staircase in stone, made from a double helix shape, difficult to describe. (But full of breathless Japanese going 'HAU' very loudly and pointing cameras at anything and everything.)

I love Chinon, and we wandered in there several times to have lunch at the outdoor restaurants, overhung with shady trees, and still pleasantly full of people.

A little runaway that I think we shall do again.

Going away

'Have you packed my cream sweater?'

'Yes'.

'Thanks. Um, did you put enough socks in?'

'Yes'.

'Thanks. Where did you say the map book was?'

Etc etc. I bet you've all been there. and all we are doing is going away for a few days not by air, or train, but in our own car. so not too complicated, then. And yes, I have done the packing, remembered to cancel the papers, given our keys to our friendly neighbour and all those things that you do.

And sweet man that he is, he has tractor mown the lawn, dug through the potager, mended a fence...and all the things that he does. So I can't really complain.

It's maybe 35 years since I visited the Loire valley, then with three children in tow, moaning gently 'pleeeeeeeease not another chateau'. I dont blame them really, one would have been enough.

The one I particularly wish to revisit is Azay le Rideau, a real fairy tale turretted castle surrounded by a moat. I went to a Son et Lumiere there and never forgot the play of lights, the gleaming colours, lights picking out the stonework, reflecting in the water. Beautiful.

So, off we go tomorrow..a little 'evasion' , escape, from everyday things.

A story of a Purple cow, (with apologies to the Arabian Nights).

And tonight, oh my best beloved , I shall tell you a tale of a magical purple cow.

Once upon a time, a calf was born. Its parents looked with a little astonishment at it, finding it to be somewhat different in colour to themselves. After all, Father Bull was a Blue bull slightly related to the Nilgai in Africa, Mother cow was a Red Poll . Why was this calf so different. It was, they muttered to themselves, shamefacedly, purple. Well, maybe , lilac, did that sound better?

Purple was a shy little calf, and grew up mostly on his own, the others in the herd all being rather boring brown or black cows. When he felt lonely or a bit sad he would go and meditate in a patch of thistles, where no one could see him. Being purple.

One evening, when he was wondering what life held for him, there was a sudden whistle of wind, a rushing sound, and across the field swooped a lady in a pointy hat, on a broomstick. He had never seen anything like it before, not at all like the farmer's lady who came to give them food. She didnt have a broomstick.

The lady asked him very kindly, but in a slightly strange accent, if he would care to visit her, and maybe have a new home. She explained that he would have his own field, with thistles too, and he would have rather a special job to do, called 'Looking after some People'. and he would be called a 'Purplecoo'. Not that he was quite sure what that meant, but it didnt matter.

Happy to say good bye to the others, he jumped on the broomstick and flew with the lady to a lovely, lovely place. There was a nice man with a camera who took pictures of him. There were cottages and some more people. But best of all , no one laughed at him for being a different colour. They said he was just what they needed. He was so pleased to be there. He has his own field to graze in, he has thistles but he doesnt hide so often and he has People!

And his special job? Well, every day he goes and looks at some very nice People, and occasionally, just now and then.....he winks.

My own Harvest festival!

Why do I never have enough jam jars when it comes to making jellies, chutneys and things? I save them every time I finish a jar, so where do they go? Maybe there is a secret jam jar land where they creep off to hide, rather than being filled up again with boring old hot stuff. i once asked the other staff at school if they could spare me some. One person did, complete with marmaladey bits in the bottom. Yuk.

I made 10 pounds of our favourite Apple jelly last week, adding with great pride the two big apples that had made it through the summer on one of our new trees. The rest, needless to say, fell off. I love to see my jars of clear coral jelly, and I know that 10 pounds wont be enough. We eat it with cold meat as well as on toast. My grandmother made it every year, and we had it for tea on the thinnest slices of her home made brown bread.

Today, having recovered from my wretched cold, and having found some energy returning, I made roasted tomato soup for the freezer. We are still picking around one or two pounds of big Marmande tomatoes every day from the greenhouse, and I'm working hard at using them in different ways. The roasted tomato soup is one of Delia's, and keeps all the flavour and colour in. Tomatoes, skinned, halved in a roasting tray, topped with garlic, basil and olive oil, roasted at high heat for an hour, and then whizzed in a Magi mix with a little boiling water and a sliced cooked potato for thickening. Not that it really needs any.

Blackberries, huge, have been mixed with apple and frozen. Onions, the biggest I've ever known my husband grow are being turned into French onion soup. I could do chutney, which I love, but he doesnt, so hardly worth making jars just for the sake of it. We have ears of sweetcorn but havent discovered a way of conserving so we just eat them, with very naughty salted butter.

The next and last thing will be the leeks. Must start consulting my books for things to do with them. I always feel so very Pollyanna-ish and glad when I look at my efforts!

Snuffle snuffle

How can the common cold knock one out so? Maybe this is an uncommon cold, the streaming, the sneezing, the hurt eyes and head, all make me wonder if it is not a sinister French variety. And it is taking its time to go away.
So I have retired to bed, surrounded by what seems to be a library, not that I can read for long, propped up by big lacy pillows, and with lap top for company. Every now and then my sweet husband brings me tea or soup, or even a comforting bar of chocolate.
I went back in my mind to the childhood illnesses, and remembered how my mother would look after me. Lemon and honey, teeny tempting meals, a story read to me, new bed clothes when I was hot and fretful. I wonder if it is only mothers who have the innate ability to know just what the child's needs are, to understand the feelings of illness and frustration that you dont feel any better. I wonder if it ever goes away? Do you always know what your child needs? What will 'make it better'?
The cold will go, is already going. My memories linger on.

At last...The Fete.

It's all over now. The fete was yesterday, a long long day, which started as we left home at 8am, and ended roughly 12 hours later.

The weather was perfect, a hot sunny day. We hadnt , of course, allowed for the fact that there was a small rugby match on, somewhere, which meant that numbers were not as high as we'd hoped. But people came. The start time was 2.30 pm and the French rolled in any time from 1.30 (cant miss a bargain) to 4.30 ( Hmm, thought there would be more cream tea left?) Stalls abounded in what Betty Macdonald called 'toecovers' (is anyone familiar with her wonderful books?) Bric a brac proudly sported an air conditioner, a nearly new cooker and assorted china and, um, objects. Books were pounced upon by eager folk desperate for an English novel. Clothing sold well. The bouncy castle was bounced on.

The cake stall, always a good thing, made lots of money. Sponge cakes, apple tarts,

chocolate cake, all favourites. Bemused French...'C'est quoi ,cette fruit cake?'

English cream teas were a winner, sadly no such thing as Cornish cream exists here, so we used mascarpone, dont mention the calories. Scones , jam, cream, mmmm . And yes, the tea urn was in full swing, good thing too as the first one I collected fused all the electrics. 2 hours wasted running back and forth to Pontivy to get a new one.

Trailing to a finish at around 5pm ,there was only the raffle left to draw. All the right people seemed to win, including the little French girls who had spent their pockeet money hoping for a box of chocolates, a toy lion or a fluffy animal. and when it had all ended...yes, there was still about two hours of clearing up to do. We do have a good team , though, and even though we were exhausted it was great to leave the beautiful monastery garden clean, tidy, looking as though we'd never been there.

We made 1800 euros....success!

Mice

So sad to read Country mousie's blog today. There are many of us in this group who have been through the same thing, obviously in different ways, but we all know the feelings, many and varied.
Even though you have never met someone, you can still feel hurt and sad for them, knowing from experience some of their emotions, some of their feelings. The sadness of one affects all of us.
Although I have been remarried for 28 very happy years, there is still that latent memory of the rejection, the aloneness, the responsibility of being left with children to bring up. The scars fade, the memories die away, but, given a jerk, they re emerge.
So it is good to feel at one with Mousie, to somehow will one's thoughts and prayers towards her, hopefully giving her support and strength. Mice may be little creatures , but they can be very tenacious.

The tea urn..........

Yes, the tea urn. Panic, oh help, and what shall we DO? The week before the church Fete, and what? The tea urn is broken. It is unworking. It is a deceased tea urn.
And as there will be a million Brits at our Fete, (I wish), all unable to live without their cuppa, we have to do something P.D Q.
So who is it that is the only person who knows where the catering supplies shop is? Me. And of course as a revered Church warden, it is part of my remit to go and search out a new urn, fast. Arrive in Pontivy, go to shop....and look in vain for tea urn. Large 50 cup coffee urns abound. Well, this is France ,n'est pas? So I have a little chat with monsieur, and watch the look of bafflement come over his face as I describe a tea urn, an urn for boiling water.......'Elodie, viens ici, mutter mutter' (think he's telling his wife about the mad woman, English of course, who wants a , what? Urn for the boiling of tea?)
A kettle is produced, no, not big enough? Another bigger kettle. No? OK then, well why not buy a large coffee urn and take out the interior filter bits. Well, yes, good idea - if it wasnt 230 euros. We all pause for a moment, me frantically describing English church fete, 60 people wanting tea, boiling water, and finally, the answer comes.
'Why not rent it for the weekend, Madame?'
Oh the darling man. We all beam at each other, problem solved, and at a cost of.........20 euros!
I do wonder what they said after I had left. We had finished up having one of those wonderful fractured conversations, he in pidgin English, me in French, both complimenting each other on how well we spoke the language! And as iI left, he called 'Look Madame, I wrote down the day to collect...and I wrote 'Friday, in English'. And clapped his hands at his own brilliance!

New day

Looking back on yesterday I feel very silly, was that me?? No, someone else has obviously been at my PC, and written moany things.
New day today, the sun is shining. Thank you more than you know for kind words/advice/ shake ups etc. I needed it!
Off to a very long and no doubt boring PCC meeting today, during which I shall draw on my Agenda. I remember when being tutored for A levels, my teacher saying, 'I hope you're concentrating as well as drawing?' It's a habit I cant break, doodling.
I'm running with UPL's suggestion of making a family book. I did one two years ago when we visited the Aussies, so this time it will be for my daughter who lives in Canada. It is lovely to dig out the hundreds of photos, and memorabilia (school reports, music exam results etx) and put it all together.
Have a good day, I'm going to!

What?

What to write? I sit here some days and ponder, what on earth have I got to say that is at all interesting. I dont have children now, to describe, I dont do a rewarding job of work, I am 'just' a retired person, the interesting bits lie behind me.
The fascinating work with children with special needs, the liaison with social services, the visits to homes to try to talk sense into Mum (who was probably too taken up with the latest 'uncle' to listen to our pleas for reading practice (what?) proper packed lunch? school on time). All passed on to someone else. Though looking at the way the funding is allocated, probably not.
Am I feeling maudlin? Just a bit. I think it is the time of life when one sees just how little is in front and how much has gone.....and oh how you would like to go back and do it properly.
But, par contre, as the French knowingly say, of course there is good. I have all day to do my garden, to sew, to design a new patchwork, to play on the computer, to write out the Agenda for the next PCC meeting, to make jam...et al.
Somehow, to one used to a powerfully involved job/life, it isnt quite enough.

Quiet now.

And now it is quiet. We are once again on our own, having seen our friends off to the south yesterday. I love to have them. I love being on our own too! Time to read the paper, time to sit over a coffee and natter, time to think 'Oh does it matter what we eat tonight?'
We have a project on the go, so it's out with the tape measure to work out the size of cupboard we want to put in the newly created study. Mmmmm, catalogues full of shelves, cupboards, bright ideas. Maybe we'll just be understated and put in a cupboard, which will hide the electric meter, and one or two shelves for all the files that one seems to gather. Paperwork isnt my forte, but it's got to be done.
I have things to prepare for the Autumn Fete that our Church is having next weekend, bouncy castle and all. Cakes to make, scones to cook for the English Cream teas that we serve, bottles to collect for the stall my husband is to run. I've sewn my way through 12 lavender bags, all full of my own lavender, and the smell is making me feel slightly woozy! But , so pretty. I hope they will sell.

Perfect week

Visitors arent always 'perfect', but we are fortunate to have two longtime friends who are as near perfect visiors as they could be. We have had a week together, they in need of a break in the course of having a house built in the Lot et Garonne, and we delighted that they have driven up to see us.

The weather helped of course, sunny days, warm evenings to sit out with a drink, scents of sweet peas and night scented stock wafting over the terrace. We have eaten rather too well, it seems, with lunches out at Larmor Plage, and Auray, and coffees and croissants at the bar before early morning shopping. Yesterday we had a BBQ at home, a lunch that started at 1.30 and went on somehow till around 4pm, at which point the men lay in a horizontal position on lounger chairs in the sun. We barbecued pork marinaded in herbs, oil and red wine. We made delicious salads from the greenhouse tomatoes , basil, mozzarella. A loaf of Fougasse, a soft bread liberally sprinkled with bacon and cheesy bits, two bottles of very special 1999 red wine, and a green salad, and our meal was ready.

We topped it off with a wicked pud, bought from the patisserie. As you can see.

What an honour!!

An award!! Such a surprise to find that dear UPL had nominated me as an inspirational blogger. I dont know about inspiring, I find that I can only write the way I am, cant pretend to be otherwise. But it's very nice . Thank you.

Today we have very dear friends staying for a week, so we shall be out and about. Lovely!

12 things etc.

It's hard to limit it to twelve!


They say that the sense of hearing is the last one to leave you. The sense of smell is one that evokes so many memories , rather than sound or sight, for me.





Scents;

The scent of a rose such as Gertrude Jekyll. It will almost overpower a room so strong is it. I love it as much as I love gazing at the perfect formation of the flower.

Of course Lavender, so many people's choice. Difficult to say why,
just that it conjures up all the old memories, lavender in my Grandma's glove drawer, the scent of 4711Old English Lavender on my mother, brushing through the lavender bushes I have had in all my gardens.


Then, if it doesnt sound toooo 'housewifely', the scent of newly washed laundry just as I bring it in from the garden.

Casseroles! Yes, really, and that also takes me back to my grandmother's kitchen. Being a Lancashire lady she always had a wonderful hot pot going.


Strange, as a non smoker, I love the smell of a cigar, but only at Christmas. Mingled with tangerine smells it evokes Christmas for me.

The 'scent' of a brand new book, unread and waiting for me.

Freshly made expresso coffee, mixed with the scent of warm croissants.

Cornish pasties! The smell is better than the feeling that you have a pasty shaped heap inside after eating one.




Sounds;

Any of Chopin's piano concertos, heard so many years ago at the Salzburg festival.

A lawn mower on a warm day, it's a summery sleepy sound.

Birdsong in the morning, outside the bedroom window.



I think that's my 12 done. There could be more, but homework is only supposed to take twenty minutes, isnt it?

Too far away.

This morning my son who lives in in Australia rang me. I love it when he calls as he enjoys a long gossipy chat as much as I do. He is married to a gentle Thai girl and they have two beautiful girls of 11 and 6. They have my son's fair skin but his wife's dark hair and velvety eyes.

He was worried about the report on his youngest daughter who has a slight speech impairment. Having been there last Christmas I dont think it is too much to worry about, and she is programmed to have sessions with a speech therapist.But my sweet daughter in law is taking all the blame and beating herself up as she is sure it is all her fault. Of course she speaks with an accent, she's Thai, but it isnt her fault. the elder daughter speaks normally after all. I think Littlest is in such a rush to get on with all aspects of life that she doesnt give herself time to articulate, just roars into conversation, ignoring order and pronunciation.

Listening to my son I suddenly realised that not only is he a son, he is a father, a caring one. As an ex teacher I can give him advice but he is in charge of his family. He is spending 10 minutes each evening following the therapists programme of reading with Littlest. 'It's her whole life' he tells me. He's getting her sister involved in word games and story telling....all the things I would do. All the things I would love to do as a grandmother..............but thousands of miles separate us.

Slaash and burn.............

It's cutback time in the garden, and I am attacking everything with abandon. The rain this 'summer' has meant that the plant growth has been phenomenal, and things that should be a couple of feet tall are towering over me.

Yesterday it was roses, though I dont cut right back yet, just a suggestion. There will probably be a third flowering from some of them. But all the rest got it in the neck. My lovely furry lamium (lambs ears) is reduced to only a few newish leaves. the beautiful white Achillea which spreaads in drifts around the beds is.....very small.

All the Aquilegias have finished, the delphiniums chopped, and the bronze fennel right down before it can shake its seeds all over the garden. I wasnt quick enough last year and have baby fennels coming out of the beds everywhere.

Weeds of course abound, especially docks, hiding beneath the leaves of bigger plants. Bindweed has been a particular scourge this year too, and it's so hard to eliminate.

But, my penstemons are a riot of colour, the Kaffir lilies are red and Autumnal and there are marigolds and pansies throughout. Trees are just beginning to change colour now, and the Pistachio that we bought (couldnt resist) is going a lovely rusty red. My favourite is the Liquidambar tree, (photo above) its name is lovely and its leaves are gorgeous, reds and golds.

A little bit of gardening every day is what I have set myself, just till it looks ready for Autumn.

Journeys

Journey back. 5.15 am. Relentlessly jolly wake- up music over the radio in the cabin of the Brittany ferries ship. Soft cooing voice. .........Ze commandant and hees staff would like to sank you for travelling wiz Brittany ferries and ope zat you ave enjoyed your crossing........

It would have been fine if I hadnt got so mad at the stupid deckhand who was pushing all the boarding cars together in such a manner that no one could get out of their doors without hitting another car. Little elderly ladies frantically trying to heave themselves through 6 ins of space wielding walking sticks, larger than life Frenchmen crashing doors into other doors. In the absence of anything but a Gallic shrug from the said deckhand I screamed at the 'hostess', much to my husband's embarrassment, who screamed at the deck hand-- and all the cars were then moved back a few feet so everyone had room to get out.

Time in England is precious and my husband enjoyed some happy days on the farm where he was born, with his remaining brother. They pottered round the fishing lakes, the watercress beds, and had a wonderful time catching up. Moving between Barton Stacey, Hurstbourne Priors, to Thatcham where the wedding was held, enabled us to catch up with family and friends. Newbury Manor hotel (pictured above) is lovely, in a perfect setting for a wedding, set on a river into which runs a mill race. The restaurant, excellent food incidentally, had only just been refurbished after severe flooding. the sun shone on the bride, and old friends and family met up, for some of us it was the first time in years that everyone had been together.

Now back to a perfect day in Brittany, sun shining, and ,sadly, weeds proliferating. I'm using the excuse of unpacking before I can force myself to do anything about it!

To England

We're off tomorrow for a few days in England, to a niece's daughter's wedding. Not sure what relation that makes us , but immaterial really. I have the passports, the half packed suitcase, husband's suit and a very nice wedding present.


I love the way shops in France wrap things when they know it is for a 'cadeau', lots of pretty paper, ribbons , bows and little labels. It makes it a pleasure to give, and certainly looks better than anything I might achieve. I know the bride has a newly decorated taupe and white bathroom so went for some satin bound taupe and chocolate towels, very glamorous!


Suit....when does one ever wear a suit here? Answer, never. However, we must do the proper thing, so husband, with much effort , will be getting into smart suit. I'm still dithering.


Sadly there isnt a purple cow on the horizon anywhere near Newbury/Andover this weekend, though I advertised on the Dating page...but no luck. It would be fun to meet, as so many of you are able to do.

Sarah Raven

I watched Sarah Raven on Gardeners World last night, and was so impressed by her programme, which was exclusively about British flowers. Of all things I prefer wild flowers, but there are times when you need something more formal perhaps, and too often it is the easy quick way....pick up a pretty bunch without wondering where they have come from. Marks ans Spencers...very tempting, though apparently they are leaning towards sourcing British grown flowers now.

Some of her research into the history of flower growers and pickers on the Scillies and in Cornwall took me right back to childhood. Along the lane where I lived was Mr Buzza (good old Cornish name). He had a little plantation of violets, the old fashioned sort that you rarely see now. Big big petals, deep purple in colour and with an incredible perfume. How long since I've seen one like that? We girls, with several village ladies, were allowed to help with some of the picking. The violets were bunched with two deep green leaves, tied with raffia and boxed ready for travel to Covent Garden. I can smell those boxes now, and hear the lovely soft Cornish accent as the ladies admired my little bunches, which maybe werent even sent off, so amateur would they have been.

Some friends found an orchard full of primroses and we were paid 6d per bunch for gathering and bunching them, to be sent to the flower market also. Sadly Mr Buzza's violet garden is now a very smart executive home, lived in by people who probably have no idea of the history that once was there.

Sarah reminded us how much fresher British flowers are. They havent had the stress of flying from South America, they might only have picked from Cornwall the day before, and even more important, we are helping keep a livelihood going by buying them. In a test with a local florist she equipped half the shop with British and half with Dutch and imported flowers. By the end of the day 98% of stock sold was British. to see people dipping their noses into the bunches and inhaling the smell of real flowers was lovely. She has persuaded some of the grander hotels in London, the Ritz, the Savoy, to use British flowers in their room arrangements.

So from now on, when not picking from my own garden, I'm going to try to source flowers grown in the country where I live, be it France or England.

Time goes by......

I cant believe it is 5 days since I wrote anything. Time goes too fast. And yet sometimes it doesnt seem to, a day can drag for no particular reason. The phone doesnt ring, the washing machine forgot to do what it was supposed to so all had to be redone, the ironing takes forever...

But today has been a 'vegetable'day. My darling ex farmer husband has brought in from his potager the following;
7 lbs of tomatoes
Several courgettes
A bunch of new carrots, what bliss!
Colander full of potatoes
Small handful of huge cultivated blackberries
3 leeks
3 very small yellow peppers
Pounds of shallots
French beans
And enough Runner beans to feed an army
A lettuce or two
Spring onions

The tomatoes are going to make Roast tomato soup, a la Delia. the rest..well I'll have to freeze a lot, but my freezer is getting chock a block. Men have no idea about little by little! Roast vegetables will take care of courgettes and peppers. French beans dont freeze, so reschedule supper. Freeze the runners, blackberries for winter. Carrots in the fridge..... And so it goes on! It is good to eat our own produce, but wish he had got used to the fact that we are only two!

All gone

Our visitors have gone, off with the (very sleepy) lark at 5 am to catch the ferry at Roscoff. We've had a wonderful week, with only 2 days of rain. So much for the flaming August that was predicted.
As a last day out we went to a kind of Safari park near Vannes, called Branfere, where animals roam at liberty. The park has been made in the grounds of a Chateau, and is more than just an animal park, also a centre where the relationship between Man and Nature is developed. There are teaching areas, video rooms, and lodging for 80 people . Stays for 8-16 year olds are encouraged, with bird watching, falconry displays, and participation in all that goes on in the Park. It is an inspiring place, and watching deer race cheerfully across the lawns, wallabies hopping around like Zebedee, and llamas peacefully grazing ,was wonderful. The park has had many young bred and raised, which must be an achievement, and seems to point to the fact that the animals are relaxed and happy in this environment.
Dodging the rain drops that threatened from time to time, we had lunch on the terrace of the restaurant, and wandered home to do the practical job of packing. Sad to see them go, but what a happy time we have had.

Will it ever stop raining?

Well....after several lovely sunny days with our family visitors, we have, once again, rain. And more rain. It has never stopped all day. Like good girl

guides we didnt let it stop us. We put on rainclothes and went walking, first in the local woods, where it was far too wet to be enjoyable, then in the city, in Vannes. The woods were very beautiful in a misty blue sort of way, paths made slidy and muddy by the rain, but the trees lookes somehow as if they'd welcomed the rain.

Vannes was....well, frankly , wet. But we had gone for a reason, to buy the birthday present for grandaughter, and so we slogged through tourists, shoppers, found the shop , and bought the present. A very fetching outfit.

As it was my husband's birthday we ended the day with a very enjoyable dinner at our local hotel, where we were presented with aperitifs as a birthday 'present'. How nice.

Lovely visitors

Family seem always to be the best of visitors. There's no need to be tidy , or on one's best behaviour, we can all be who we are. There's nothing nicer than all lounging around on long chairs in the garden, on the terrace, by the pool, reading, nattering, sleeping a little.

Tonight we've been doing a big shop at Geant, a hypermarket with so many interesting things to buy. Family have stocked up with things to take home. We have bought food for a BBQ tomorrow night , to which we have invited another 6 people, so we shall be 11. Not as big an event as Pondside with her 30, but enough. We found a wonderful fresh salmon to stuff with lemon and parsley and put on the barbecue. 'Can you pack it in ice?' I asked the young man on the fish counter. Doubt spread across his face. 'Oh dear, no, I dont have the right to give you our ice'. After a little conversation about salmon being in the car, must keep it fresh and could you ask your directeur for the right to give me ice, a smile came on his face, a shrug, and 'Oh la la, no problem' as he filled a large bag with ice and wrapped it round my salmon. It's as though they have to invent a problem in order to solve it!

We went on to a lovely beachside restaurant, people watched, saw no other English, amazing, and ate very good food, fresh Bass which tasted as though it had just jumped out of the water. Sea lapping in over the beach and the last of the holiday makers gathered up buckets and spades as we left. What a gorgeous place to bring children for a safe holiday by the sea. Grandaughter wandered back with bare feet over the soft sand as we made our way to the car. What a super day. Hope for wonderful weather tomorrow for our Barbecue.

Purple Harvest.

I wanted to put this in the common room, but it wouldnt let me, for some reason. This is the first harvest from our orchard! One plum tree has given us three and a half pounds of fruit, and what a colour! Sadly the Reine Claudes have rotted on the stems almost before they are ripe, and there are only four fit to eat.

We planted our 12 fruit trees just over a year ago, so didnt think we would have very much fruit this year. There are some apples coming, but not many yet.

Sunday

Lovely lovely day....the sun is so bright, there are little damp spiders webs all over the lawn, and, oh dear, the mole has been busy. I think we may have a small molecity under our garden, as every few days smooth, even heaps of earth are left for our enjoyment. Husband swears, mutters and stomps off to Bricolage to get yet another product that will get rid of them. This time its smoke bombs. Boys and toys, I think. Having grown up with Little Grey Rabbit and her chum Moldy Warp, I actually like moles.
So, wearing my Marks and Spencer country clothes, I'm off to church this morning. Does that count in the great journalistic world, do you think? Am I doing the right thing to be a proper country dweller? Or should I be lounging about in my bodens, something I have to say I have never worn. I actually cant bear their catalogue!
Barbecue tonight with fresh sardines bought at the market yesterday. The fish man only sells what he catches so we are sure that fish hasnt been flown in from Brazil or other exotic places. Eaten with home grown new potatoes and salad picked from the garde, what more could one want. And it is real country living, the like of which some of our journalistic friends have never tasted.

Feeble or what?

Feeble this may sound, but it concerns me that the whole world can read our blogs....and use them as they want. I know it happens, but I've gotten complacent and yesterday published photos of friends. Later deleted them, as I felt I was risking their privacy, one in particular. Maybe I'm worrying overmuch.

A yearly migration

They're here! They've arrived! That amazing variety of migratory beings has been sighted , here, in Brittany.
They wear amazingly inappropriate clothes. They talk in VERY loud voices. They say things like 'Why isnt it like Sainsbury's?' or 'Where's the ******bacon, Tracy?' Bulging out of their shorts and stomach --revealing T shirts, they crowd up to the paydesk, not having weighed their fruit and vegetables, (it's what we do here). Very polite check out girl attempts to explain, using a litttle schoolgirl English. 'What? What she saying Mum? Why dont they speak ENGLISH, for *****sake?' Girl tries again, pleadingly , with hand gestures ( no not those, though wouldnt blame her). Finally gives up, to a chorus of 'Oh let her do it then', she politely , kindly, gets up and trots off to weigh their goods. Comes back with a sweet smile.
Yes, this amazing group is Touristus Idioticus, famous for having the worst manners in the world. They drive the wrong way round roundabouts, they swear at innocent shopgirls, they stagger out of supermarkets with 3 or 4 cases of beer, 24 tins to the case (gotta have a good time, see). They argue in restaurants, they refuse to listen to polite suggestions from the maitre de.....'Nah, just give me the steak and fritts'. They kick the self service petrol machine because they arent aware that British bank cards are not welcome.
Tell me why they come, please? Of course, we all know that there are charming lovely tourists, you all are, definitely. It just seems that we get the horrors in Brittany. Didnt seem to happen in the Gironde so much. I think we will spend a good deal of August at home, where we arent likely to bump into them.

Building/rebuilding.....

We never seem to be without a builder or two. Today I'm lying in wait for Godfroi the electrician, who has promised to come before the great holiday , August, when tradesmen disappear into the blue. Or actually to exotic destinations like Le Reunion, Martinique and anywhere that French is spoken. One can't , after all , mix with people who speak a foreign language.
We had, when we had this house built, an integral garage, very smart, electric up and over door, tiled floor etc. One end was fited with my laundry machines. The other part never saw a car. Somehow it just never got used. So we decided to turn it into a study, accessed from the dining room. It will be a room of about 3x4 metres, so plenty of place for computer, files, and even a pull out sofa for an extra bed.
All this should have happened in April, but, sigh, has only just been completed to the point where Godfroi can hopefully come and connect the electricity. Then it's painting the ceiling and walls, putting in shelving, putting up curtain rail, and finally moving in furniture. It wont be finished in time for family arriving next week, but it's not essential, so not to worry.
The smart garage door is now in place in a big shed, which could be used as a garage, in the garden.
One day, just one day, we will feel as though everything is finished, what relief!

5 things to beat a bad mood

There are times when I just need to be by myself, not necessarily because of a bad mood, but maybe a low feeling. Not quite depressed, but certainly negative.

What do I do to shake it off ?

I go outside wherever possible, and meander round my flowerbeds. By the time I've checked what is flowering, and had a word or two with the roses, I begin to lose touch with the me, me, me bit. When I look at the marvel that is a rose I am transported.

I ring a very good friend in England and we have a moan, which usually ends in a laugh. Sharing helps.

I go to my favourite big armchair and curl up with a book, a large bear, and a cup of coffee, and read my way into another world and out of the depths.

I contact a nearby lady who has more needs than I do, and see if she would like a visit, or a run to the shops.

I get involved in my cross stitch..creating something lovely always cheers me.

Very simple things, but ....that's me!

Auray

And here is one i meant to put on earlier...the Port St Goustan, Auray.

Oh, what to write?

I dont seem to have written anything for ages, not since I came back from my brief stay in England. It seems to be a bit like school homework, write what did you do on a day in the holidays. Why would anyone want to read my incredibly boring day....I got up, I had breakfast, I went to the supermarket...
Anyway, today we went out. We went to meet friends in a lovely waterside town called Auray. They have a cottage in Brittany so come over quite often, and they're the sort of friends with whom we always laugh. We met at our favourite restaurant in the Port area, overlooking the water, where there is a huge choice of places to eat, all with seating outside under parasols...and it was sunny!
Lovely lazy meal, nattering over aperitifs, ice cold champagne, bubbles, sunshine, mmm. The restaurant full of French, thin, chic women with big sunglasses, tanned men, gorgeous French babies in gorgeous French baby clothes. Madame, the owner's wife had a baby last year, and by the look of it, may be having another this year, but a bit impolite to ask, I thought.
Plates of seaweed with shelly things on, fish soup, canard, steaks, drifted through to coffee. And yes, we were almost the laast to leave, but no one worries.
So, that was our day. Home now. I have done the ironing. I am getting the supper. I will go to bed. The end.

A sad one

Sadly I fly to England on Wednesday, to the funeral of my cousin, who has died at 64, so much too young. Our mothers were sisters, and we grew up living on the same little Cornish lane, long before there were 'furriners' around. We moved to Cornwall when I was about 7, to live with grandparents who had a large house by a creek, my father having just died.
My Aunt and Uncle moved a year later just up the lane, so our days were spent running in between houses.
We both had sailing dinghies, but werent allowed to use them till we could swim to the middle of the creek and back. We were, of course, Swallows and Amazons. We spent so much of our time just roaming the beaches, getting to know the local fishermen, safe in the knowledge that it was a community. We collected shells together, we argued about whose turn it was to climb the old oak tree, we hid from our mothers when they called...did all the things children do - together.
As we both grew up we didnt see as much of each other, but whenever we met up, with , later families of our own, it was as if we had just continued the last conversation.
He and his wife came out to visit us last year, and I had the feeling, but hoped I was wrong, that he was making goodbye visits, having by that time been diagnosed with the evil cancer. It was a week I will keep close in my memory, a week of wandering along the river bank, laughing over childhood memories, eating crepes in the little local creperie, shopping for gifts to take home, and best of all, just lounging in the sun by the pool talking and more talking.
He was the brother I never had. I shall so miss him.

Sunshine

Sun, sun! At last!

We have had a lovely sunny day in this part of Brittany. We decided to go to the beach at Larmor plage and have lunch, just to celebrate husband being back home etc. Soon realised that it wasnt a good idea, the combination of sun, beach and impending national holiday meant that the road was solid. We managed to turn and came back to our hometown where we had a delicious lunch in the courtyard of a little hotel, shaded by creepers and parasols, and surrounded by locals. Probably much nicer than the beach would have been.

It is such a joy to go out on the terrace, to sit in warmth, at last. The neighbours tell me it's going to last.....I hope so!

roses...again

As I cant seem to add a picture in the common room I've come into my own little room to sigh. I do try with my homework...but it just doesnt come easy!

These climbing roses grew from a cutting that I took two years ago. I planted it in May 2006, so it has exceeded all my expectations.

My mother was an incredible gardener, and I havent inherited her flair for design, but I think I do much as she did - ignore lots of the rules, put plants where you want them to be, give them lots of love and chat, and they will not only survive but flourish. This rose bears that out! I think it is an Excelsa, and it has a companion white one which flowers earlier.

Out in the garden today,as we have the SUN!

Apricots!! Mmm, this is what I will be doing today, making Apricot jam. I think I can make jam nearly as good as Bonne Maman, using St Delia's recipe. I stone the fruit, leave it in a big pan and cover it with sugar. It can stay overnight, but I want to finish it today.

Whe we lived in the Gironde we had an Apricot tree in the garden which produced amazing fruit. It was a race to pick it before the ants found it...can you imagine a horde of ants scaling a 12 foot tree? But they did. The black figs on the two trees just got eaten by my husband.Maybe ants done like figs.

There is something about lining up jars of jam in the larder that is very satisfactory. Is it the storing up syndrome, the good housewife feeling, or is it just that you know it's going to give pleasure to everyone who eats it? Was it in Little Women that the 'jelly pots' were mentioned, I cant remember?

As we left the hospital one of the very charming female Drs came over to me and said..'Your huband is adorable, the nurses like to go in to see him'.! ( you have to think that said in English but with a French accent!)
Well, that's so nice to hear, and he is a bit different from many of the crusty old boys who were there.
It's even better knowing he is relaxing at home, though how he has the energy to even stand I dont know, after the delightful vampire nurse has been. Twice a day. Anti coagulant injections in the stomach mean that he is, as she laughingly says 'decorated'. Blue bruises. Further blood tests await results. Through it all he remains cheerful and positive....and cant wait to get into the garden. It is of course, raining this morning!
On a different note, I'm getting used to the new site, finding my way around the corridors, getting lost occasionally, as no doubt others are. Or is it just me?

A small PS.

Just a small addition to earlier witterings.

Alain-next-door started the grass cutting in his lunch hour..now that , for a Frenchman is amazing, it's normally sacrosanct.

When he had to leave he put his 2 boys on to the job. Benoit whose 11th birthday it was, and Samuel who is 16. It was priceless watching them. Samuel trying to be very much the older brother, but not able to resist doing a few twirls, and Benoit, like Piglet, rushing alongside squeaking. 'Samuel....SAMUEL!! You've missed a bit/ cut the wrong bit/ run over a daisy/not doing it like Papa asked....' etc etc. The darlings finished, the lawn looks, um, interesting, with lovely swirly patterns, but, oh, it's done.

I took a box of chocolates round ( not up to cooking cakes at the minute) and was reproved by Maman. 'Dont do this every time'. No I wont, promise, but we were so pathetically grateful that they had offered to do this for us. We are so fortunate to have such very kind neighbours.