Garden things.

My garden is only four years old. Previously it was a field. Maybe that is why I get such a thrill out of watching plants develop and grow.
Today the photos are of a bit of pink
gorgeousness. Click on the photos for a better view.


Under the Clematis Montana I found a tiny nest, tucked away, hardly seen. I'm not sure who is in there. Twining amongst the stems of the clematis is a rose, a beautiful Zephirine Drouhin, thornless and perfumed. She will be flowering very shortly , she tells me.

My Tree Paeony has seven buds on, and as I only planted it last year I am thrilled with the way it is growing. The flowers remind me of Candy Floss, of pink blancmange, of frilly underwear.......of all things fluffy and pink!

Dashing away with the smoothing iron........

Having put that as a heading I now wonder if it has any meaning to people. It comes from a song that we used to sing as children, a folk song that probably no one remembers now.

*****

"T'was on a Monday morning

That I beheld my darling.

She looked so sweet and charming

In every high degree.

She looked so sweet and charming oh

A'doing of the linen oh,

Dashing away with the smoothing iron

She stole my heart away....."

******

And so on right through the week.

Which has rather taken me away from the ironing that I have to attack today. It's pouring with rain, I'm not going out, so the ironing will be done.

I have a friend who has a lady just to do her ironing.

I have a daughter in law who has a lady to do her ironing.

I've just read about an ironing service in UK, where clothes are actually collected and delivered. They will even take your holiday suitcase and sort, wash and iron all the clothes. They will do alterations and mending.

The article asks "Can I trust them with a ball gown?"

Yes, I can see that that would be important to some. Me, well, I guess it is just 'out with the ironing board, out with the iron, and get on with it'. The ball gown will just have to languish in the wardrobe.

I now have a 'god-dove'.

I think I am a godmother to a Dove now. I'm not quite sure what if anything, it entails, but I am the proud winner of a naming competition!

Faith announced a competition last week, to find a name for her latest baby dove. She has gone through ups and downs looking after doves, coping with babies, searching for lost doves, and finally having two new baby doves, now around a month old.

All her doves are pure white. There were seventy names submitted, and mine was chosen. What was it?

Why, Purity, of course.

(Faith kindly offered a prize , but I have asked her to donate it to the Macmillan Cancer Relief Fund, which is a great favourite of mine)

Dechetterie.

French communes are now very strict about waste disposal. Fifteen years ago it wasnt so, there were 'tips' around many of the forests, haunted by odd people who were searching for 'bargains'.

In many regions you need a card to prove that you actually live in that area, and it has to be shown each time you visit.

The bins are all set neatly around an apron of tarmac. There is a small shelter for the man who looks after the dechetterie, and woe betide anyone who leaves a mess, drops garden waste around, or put things in the wrong container.

Each container has a purpose, one for cardboard, one for plastic, one for garden waste, one for newspaper. Anything flammable has to go into a special bin. Any oils, paintpots or petrol go somewhere else.

One can occasionally find a little gem that is being thrown out. Last year we arrived to find a beautiful toy lion sitting on the bin for 'unwanted objects', new condition, couldnt imagine why?

I asked if I could have him for our church raffle, one can't just take things, and was given Lion. Looking at his maker's label we think he was an unwanted prize. How could anyone do that to a lion? He was top prize at our Church Fete raffle!

The biggest bins are for bottles.........wonder why?

No motor mowers going.

No children shouting in the gardens.

The village is quiet.

The sun is so hot we have had to find a bit of shade to sit in. Tea was taken under the parasol .

This is where everyone is. Down at the beach, not surprising, as our Breton beaches have miles of white sand, far fewer people than one might see in UK, and are exceptionally clean. Wednesday is a 'no school' day here, children are meant to do something 'sportif', so maybe going to the beach counts!

Too hot for me though. I have spent some time leisurely cleaning pots for geraniums, washing plastic lounger chairs, and pricking out baby Nicotiana plants in the greenhouse. Not too leisurely then!

Demolition!

A scene similar to this met our eyes last week. Our tiny village lane was filled with machines, crane, diggers, lorries.
What was happening?

A very old cottage, leaning wearily to one side, was considered too dangerous to leave there. It had been uninhabited for years, and was probably 150 years old.

The slight problem was that it was joined on to another, very nice, holiday cottage, belonging to an English family who were over on holiday. With very little warning the work swung into action early one morning, much to the terror of the children, who were sure that their house would collapse too. An older neighbour who has lived here all his life told them that their house was the first to be built and that the old cottage was only 'leaning' on it!

Crashing, banging and clouds of thick dust went on for three days. The children came to us during the day time, too frightened to use their own bathroom in case the ceiling came in! In fact it would have been more than one's life was worth if any damage had been done, as the French are suppose to work by strict rules.

The beautiful dressed stone was very quickly taken away by lorry and no doubt sold for a good price to someone wanting old stone with which to build another house.

Swallows flew out, nests broken and spoiled. It was sad to see yet another bit of the village demolished, but it certainly wasnt worth the cost of renovation.

These are not photos of the real cottage as the owners did not want any taken.

Spring blossom.

A little bit of Spring blossom today.
We planted this Crab Apple only two years ago. Sadly the fruit isnt edible, but looks wonderful with shiny bright red crab apples.

I have never been able to find the good old English 'John Downie' in France. I used to make pounds of jelly when we lived in England.

Afternoon tea with friends.

Do you recall that wonderful description of a tea party in 'The Wind in the Willows' .

"After a short interval Ratty reappeared staggering under a fat, wicker luncheon-basket. 'Shove that under your feet,' he observed to the Mole, as he passed it down into the boat. Then he untied the painter and took the sculls again. 'What's inside it?' asked the Mole, wriggling with curiosity. 'There's cold chicken inside it,' replied the Rat briefly; 'coldtonguecoldhamcoldbeefpickled gherkinssaladfrenchrollscresssandwich espottedmeatgingerbeerlemonade sodawater - ' 'O stop, stop,' cried the Mole in ecstacies: 'This is too much!"
From Wind in the Willows by Kenneth Grahame.

During the Easter weekend we were invited out to tea with friends who live about an hour away, in a lovely old Breton stone house. We knew how nice it would be to spend some time with them, but weren't quite expecting the amazing feast that met our eyes when we went into their huge farmhouse style kitchen, warmed by a wood fire.

There on a long table, covered with a snowy lace cloth, was what my husband calls 'A PROPER TEA' . There were all the memories of that glorious moment in The Wind in the Willows. Laden plates of egg sandwiches, cucumber sandwiches, as befits a Mrs Beeton tea, home made hot cross buns.............I'm tempted to do a Ratty and write it all in one long sentence!

Shortbread biscuits, butter flavoured; Parkin...yes really, proper Yorkshire-made-by -my Grandma -parkin.

Crowning glory? As befits Easter,a Simnel cake, a real one with all the proper marzipan balls. It was, as Mole said in ecstasies......almost 'too much'.

Not really, as we ate just about everything on the table, drank copious cups of tea, and admired the beautiful vase of Magnolia in the centre of the table.

Thank you UPL for recreating an almost forgotten experience.

Bed and Breakfast?

This is a sign which will be familiar to anyone who has taken a holiday in France and rented a cottage, otherwise known as a gite (jeet).

Gites de France was created in 1951, and the first Guide contained 146 houses to rent for holidays. It was not until 1998 that a website was launched. Up till then one relied on a guide book from which to choose ones holiday house.

Gites de France is now the most widely known company, with houses all over France. They have to be to a certain standard before the company will accept them, and are given gradings....ears of corn. so a gite with three ears of corn would probably have more facilities than one with only one ear. There are now 56,ooo properties available. A far cry from 50 years ago!

I wonder if it is as widely known that Gites de France have a Chambres d'hotes arm also, dealing with Bed and Breakfast in the owner's home.

Way back in 1980 we tried this service out, and will never forget the best night's sleep in a converted (just) stable, with breakfast in the farm kitchen. We sat, chatting to the farmer, watching the hen clucking in over the black and white tiled floor, drank our milky coffee from huge bowls, and were given apples to take with us for the journey. From this simple farm house we progressed to a small chateau in their first year of welcoming guests, were given a huge and elegant room, and dined with the owner in her beautiful kitchen.

The difference between this and renting a gite is that you have a really personal contact with French home owners. In general they love to chat, to tell you about their region, to help you find a restaurant, to make you feel welcome. You get to know people, and we have returned many times to the same B/B. One memorable evening was in a small farmhouse, dinner being taken en famille and with all guests at the same table. One revealed that he was a Representative for a Champagne house, and insisted on bringng in several sample bottles for us all to taste!

In those days the average price was £5.00 per night, including breakfast.

Not so nowadays. People are aware of the expectations of the public, rooms are almost always with a private bathroom, prices are much higher. But for a glimpse of French life, a chambre d'hote is sometimes more fun than staying in a hotel.

Wedding flowers.

A wedding is scheduled in our Church on Easter Monday, the first one in this building.

After the Easter service three of us set to with baskets of flowers and greenery, ribbons and bows, to make the chapel look weddingy.

It is slightly unusual as it is on the first floor of the building, approached by a winding staircase. We started at the front door and continued up the stairs. Bunches of greenery hung all the way up, ribbons trailed up the banisters, and the chapel was a mass of cream Roses , Lilies and Gerberas.

Beautiful!

(Sadly my camera was set on the wrong programme so all the photos have come out a delicate shade of pale green. Hmmmm.)

Easter Sunday

He is Risen!

Good Friday.

The midday lunch.

Picture a busy town hotel, a Logis de France, at lunch time. It is the sacred hour of midday. All offices close. Most shops close. Work stops. It is time for lunch.

The French find it incomprehensible that we English do not take two hours over lunch. One spends hours telling them about the brief half hour allotted, time for a sandwich ( a sandwich???)

My teaching timetable allowed time for a quick snack and then on with preparation or even lunchtime tuition, clubs, parent meetings........

Two hours? Never!

'But ' they say, practically wringing their hands in agony, 'but, how could you go on working on a sandwich?'

And then even worse, they learn that the English often eat a meal in the evening. 'Mon Dieu', they moan, 'But how can you sleep??'

It's true, to eat at lunch time and very lightly in the evening, is preferable, but we seem to have a tradition built in over the years.

Our local hotel is a focus for the business lunch, tables a mass of soberly suited Messieurs doing justice to the menu of the day, with just a small carafe or three of the house wine. It does cross our mind to wonder how they work in the afternoon after ploughing through a three or four course lunch.

We love the busy friendly atmosphere, the obligatory four kisses to anyone you know well, the formal handshake to the local notaire, the complimentary Kir that we are offered while we peruse the menu card. David comes to tell us all about the dishes on offer today, complete with much gesturing, handwaving and personal recommendations. Mountains of French bread are brought, a carafe of water, a carafe of red wine. Plates of succulent steak with frites, or cassolette of fish follow. Cheese is offered after the main course, but refused. A small bouquet of desserts comes, chocolate mousse, raspberry creme brulee, flaky locally made apple tart. Who can refuse?

On the dot of 1.55 the restaurant is almost emptied, with 'Au revoirs ' echoing through the room. The business men have gone back to their offices, shopkeepers to their shops, all replete and ready to work on.

The waitress comes and says she would like to ask us a question. 'Is it true ' she says, 'that the English eat their cheese after the dessert?'

And hearing the answer, goes away bewildered.

Wet, wet wet........

The rain has only just stopped, and it is 5.30 pm.

No gardening.

No walk.

No shopping.

So what to do on a day like today?

Some sewing, piecing a small quilt. Some baking, cupcakes for husband. Some research for a book I want to buy. A letter written to a dear friend in Australia. A phone chat with a grandson. And a quiet half hour in a big armchair with a book!

A win!

Thank you Juanita Tortilla for the giveaway. It was such a surprise to win it! This delightful 'yellow package' arrived with some lovely pot pourri, a knitted cupcake and such a pretty necklace. Very sweet!

Spring blossom.

He has made everything beautiful in its time.

Ecclesiastes, Ch 3, v11.

Spring sunshine

Just a little bit of the Spring sunshine in my garden today.

Today is Palm Sunday.

It's a day that is celebrated in the Christian Church, remembering that Jesus rode into Jerusalem for the Passover, on the back of a simple Donkey. Not in a carriage, not in important transport, but He came as a man of the people.

Christian churches distribute palm crosses to commemorate his entrance into the city, when people went before Him, spreading palm branches in His path.. Our service today began with blessing the crosses and then they were given out to everyone in the congregation.

Palm Sunday is the beginning of Holy week, and during this week services will be held in many churches to mark Maundy Thursday, Good Friday and Holy Saturday.

Today in Jerusalem hundreds of Christians gathered , with palm fronds, to celebrate Christ's triumphal entry into the city . A procession retraced the route into the Old City, from the Mount of Olives. 'In the feet of the Master'.

And just a bit more.......

All of a sudden the seedtrays are coming alive! I sowed Sweet peas, Basil, white Nicotiana, red Nicotiana, red lettuce and more. The heat of the last few days has helped things along. Naturally the topic of conversation among our neighbours is...what have you planted? what's coming up? Their plantings are almost always vegetables, and my Sweet peas are regarded with a questioning look? Can you eat them?

The sweet peas will need transplanting very soon before the roots grow too long. I'm going to make a bamboo wigwam for them this year.

You can see , under the shelf, the early potatoes that my husband planted in huge plastic buckets. They are looking good.

The Camellia bushes have been gorgeous. They are a Breton speciality, rather as in Cornwall. They grow so well here. Sadly the frost of the last few days has affected them and so many of the blooms have turned brown and shrivelled up.

We are still getting early morning frosts, so it is too early to put any tender plants out, though I want to start my geraniums soon.

Not far away is Anne, a Breton lady who spends her winter raising tiny geraniums to sell in the Spring. Her business has grown from a samll shed to two enormous polytunnels, in which every possible permutation of Geraniums grow. She opens up this Friday and the queues will be long. Her season is quick, maybe only three months, but she never stops selling. the quality of her plants is so good, and she is well known now. So...I'd better get there quick on Friday!