The joys of ownership

        

                                                                             

May 2022 be a happy new year to you all, my friends, wherever you are. May you stay safe, healthy and adventurous. May you all savour the wonders and surprises of life. May every day bring and give laughter and love. May you smile and give thanks even in the grey and cold of winter, if there is ever a winter where you live. 

In the light of what's happening in the world, what follows just feels so mundane to me right now. But here goes. 

After more than a year of silence, I now emerge from the hole where I was burrowing.  I like to think it means the sanitary situation will peter out into nothingness. Or is it simply the fact that home improvements sagas are not the stuff of thrilling reads? There are not so many exciting stories to tell in a year that was so stable I could cry.  This being said, if ever there was a time for growing roots and renovating, this is it...

I don't do introversion very well. Without the certainty I could be be roaming far and wide whenever I felt the urge (how spoilt we had become in the west), I pace within the confines of my mind and finding peace is not so easy even in the characterful stone house I purchased at the end of 2020. 

My new home met the need for a landing place in lockdown times, big enough to digest the cumbersome -but beautiful- carved Breton furniture inherited from my parents and to become a new family home in the sticks, where friends can visit, where my brother and sister, Thierry and Catherine, my nephews and cousins can gather and where I would long to welcome my daughter Gwendoline and her husband Jason if only the quarantine regulations were not so damn strict in Hongkong. They are planning to move to Australia, hooray! That will be me on a plane, ASAP. My house needed to be cheap - and it was - in a village with nice neighbours, not too far from shops, doctor, etc... - and it is - and in beautiful nature. And so it is, with garden and orchard, at the top of the plateau with views on the volcanoes of the Auvergne when the sky is clear - and it often is. 

Video : 'Don't go to the Lot!'

This 'department' (county), the Lot, where I have chosen to grow some roots is the 10th least populated out of a total of 95. It is beautiful, scenic, wild and veeeeeery quiet in winter. Friends who have known me a long time are only too aware I enjoy remote locations.

Enchanted by the lure of old stones, the Indiana Jones thrill of living just across from a 13th century church and Knight templar 'commanderie' and more sensitive to atmosphere than details, I got more than I bargained for. Thankfully, Phil's eagle eye spotted all that was crumbling and rotten and he spent the cold winter months (and some of the spring) sawing, painting, fixing, sanding, priming and grumbling about what was I thinking of when I bought this place? He has a point. 

When he couldn't ignore anymore the call of the sea and set off for his boat in Brittany, he had conjured with his magic wand a blue-shuttered little corner of paradise. He did manage to come back in September to fully enjoy the balmy heat and swim in the Celé river.

Aaaargh...

Harbingers of doom told me it was impossible to find available builders, all run off their feet in this area of castles, dovecotes and farmhouses teetering on the edge of dereliction. But, thankfully, I can read Tarot cards. Yes, it so happened that, at an esoteric workshop in a community café in Figeac, I met Stephane, a 'bio-electricien' very much into Feng Shui who was only too happy to take care at once of dodgy wiring and fittings of lamps and to share arcane conversation around lunchtime salads. A mason friend of his, Julien, was free to attend to an alarming fissure the size of a canyon scarring the basement wall, to fix the many leaks, to install missing gutters and replace the roof to the bread oven. He turned out to be a jovial and creative young man with a good sense for ancient buildings and traditional methods. When we discovered we shared the same birthday, we decided we were pals.

A young couple moved into the village at the same time as I did. Geoffrey is an enthusiastic mechanic so a minor god in my personal pantheon, all the more precious in an area without any public transport whatsoever. In exchange for the use of my barn for tinkering with ancient Peugeots, he repairs my 24 year old Clio. 

I didn't stay idle and trawled through second hand furniture online, all carried in (and on) my little Renault. I sanded and painted enough wood to lose the will to live, though it is, in actual fact, a drop in the DIY ocean. I made (very runny) dandelion flower jelly that tastes of honey and tried my hand at elderflower champagne. A bottle of the latter mixture, delicious but explosive, shattered in tiny shards with a loud bang inside the Breton furniture. I sowed, I planted, I weeded, I mowed, I carried stones to make borders and, for a few much needed pennies and until June when I called it quits, took care of an old lady with an Alzheimer advanced enough to require constant attention but not so advanced that she'd lost her sense of humour, thank God. A sweetie... still, half the year went by in time-consuming care.

Finally, I was ready to enjoy the sunshine and warmth of summer after one of the coldest winters in a few years and quite a few shivery moments in a house that hadn't been lived in for a while. Then, just when the fruit trees were in bloom, frost descended on the whole of France (and even a bit of Italy, or so I heard on the news). Miraculously, the village was not affected and we all had fruit coming out of our ears. The bounty required inventive processing. Cherry jam for future breakfasts with baguette and café, frozen cherries for future clafoutis and cherries in spirit (with herbs and spices) for future Forêt Noire concoctions. It was all starting to look up, with the house fulfilling its welcoming purpose and some of the visitors ( Thierry, Clément, Quentin, Catherine, Brigitte, Lutfi, Sonia, Jacky, Marie-Ange, Serge, Isabelle, Cécile and François) right on time to give a hand with the picking.

I never cease to marvel at the bounty of nature. Never before have I had an orchard or such a vast garden...

When mirabelles ripened, there were so many the branches broke at the trunk. I considered purchasing another freezer, begged tourists discovering the church across my terrace to come and 'pick some for yourselves, please', ran another jam marathon and gathered the last fallen ones for distillation into wonderfully fragrant rocket-fuel.

Mid October, I was offered free run of the figs in the garden next door (jam marathon n°3) and 'why don't you collect those walnuts on the ground, they'll go to waste'. 

To conclude this very satisfying (to me) domestic chapter, I stuffed the freezer with a mix of coriander, basil and parsley home-made pestos.

This is a village where good will prevails, where newcomers are welcome and people care. Friendly greetings, meals and aperitives are shared. You can't feel grotty without a kindly neighbour noticing your shutters are still closed at 10am. Brigitte did just that and visited with offerings of soup and compote. Her husband, Pierre, a retired shepherd, plays the harmonica and we're planning a few tunes for the fête de la musique in June. Their dog, a border collie who carries with pride the name of a brand of sausages, trots around the village in a daily circuit, begging to be petted by all. I've been invited for birthdays, cups of tea and games of scrabble by Linda and John, my English neighbours, who escaped Brexit by the skin of their teeth. 

In spite of visitors, of swinging in the hammock with a book, of lazy afternoons by the pool or the river in the valley, of laughters shared, of hikes through stunning landscapes and lavender fields, of afternoons throwing pots on the wheel in Figeac, of neighbours stopping by for a coffee, a chat, a beer, I do feel most alive when I am on the move.

Barbara and Ulysse tied the knot in Grenoble and I set off for the Alps through dramatic wet landscapes. They managed to select for the event the only rainy July weekend in living memory, the clouds so low one wondered where the mountains actually were. Nothing dampened our spirit and such shared joy and happiness are to be remembered.

I made my way to Brittany last summer and in December. In retrospect, I can't say I see much difference in the temperatures as Phil and I enjoyed Xmas lunch in the cockpit (though I wouldn't have gone for a swim on that day). We attempted a sail to Ouessant (Ushant) early August but there was a strong residual swell from previous high winds, we couldn't get into the baie de Lampaul and I was agonising below with seasickness there and back. This definitely has to be tried again on a more favourable (quiet) day. 

I settled again with pleasure into boat and harbour life in Camaret, about as far west as one can go in France, the yacht gently bobbing along the pontoons or at anchor. I walked the breathtaking cliff paths, swam to shore, rowed the dinghy and almost got carried off by currents, attended the book club at the library and had numerous cups of coffee with friends Ian and Emma and lunch with Marie-Catherine. 

There can be no comparison between last December and the miserable, drizzly, stormy, all-shades-of-grey winter 2 years ago when Xmas lights were shredded to bits. This time, we were blessed with pink evenings and cloudless skies. The sun was blinding and warm on the skin and it is the only time in my life when I was offered oysters on a hike. I had stopped to munch on some carrots and humous at a picnic spot that should be among the 100 best in the world. A group of local Bretons who had just collected 30 kilos of oysters on the shore, opened a few for me, poured chilled white wine and produced a huge box of pastries to finish off the meal in style. Now, walk that off... Puff whizz pant...

The best picnic spot...

It's now been a little bit over 2 years since I returned to France. Even though I sometimes feel there is so much less to discover and learn in a country, language, culture that are all too familiar, it is outweighed by a sense of great abundance and generosity. It is never so obvious as when one embarks on a camino route. 

The Vezelay camino

I set off at the end of September to shake off the last dregs of Covid-induced apathy and to regain a sense of unfettered freedom. After trudging 300 km from Bergerac to the Pyrenees, I was left with a deep feeling of solidarity and kindness and a heart bursting with joy. That French south west trail is poor in available accommodation all the more so for Covid regulations, keep your distance, etc... with only half the beds available. Hosts played pass the parcel with me, 'stay at my sister's', 'I'll call my friends'. Friendships blossomed, a lovely, talented potter with cats, a creative writing teacher with dog... 

I crossed many a vineyards,  Bergerac, Monbazillac, Saussignac, Entre-deux-mers and Bordeaux, a promise for cheerful evening meals but not great to shelter from blinding sun and pouring rain. 

Those gentle slopes made way for the Landes, once the poorest region of France, a flat, marshy, sandy landscape where shepherds used to wear stilts. It was planted with pines in the 19th century and is now the largest forest in western Europe. This is when other pilgrims started to come out of the woodwork. Literally. Where had they been hiding? Bread, cheese and life stories were shared and, ah, the luxury of midday coffee on the camping stove! Easy kilometres soon passed by among the rustling leaves. Sun followed rain and mushrooms popped in the undergrowth, some of them deliciously edible, though I certainly would not suggest these pretty ones here below... 

Then, one day,  a greyish blue jagged wall suddenly looms beyond modest hills.

The Pyrenees like to creep up on you like this, majestic, awe-inspiring and hard on the calf muscles. Beware of the 'patous', I was told. Those shepherd dogs big and strong enough to attack bears were down from the high pastures and aggressively  protective of their flocks. Hum... Time to make myself scarce and cross the border into Spain where my friend Idoia was waiting for me in San Sebastian. Beach time, many pinxos and potes (tapas and drinks) with friends who  chose to speak Spanish instead of Basque for my sake, bless them, so I can at least understand the gist of what was going on. 'La espuela', a last drink, followed by another espuela, such energetic, single-minded bar-crawl until late hours, joyful singing dissolving in the balmy evening air. 

                                                                                  

The joys of ownership do pale in comparison...