'And now good-morrow to our waking souls'

 

That first line was about the awakening of love. In this instance, sorry John Donne, I'm applying it to new-found openness, which does a power of good to one's soul too.

The world is shyly on the move again, friends unexpectedly popping out of the woodwork - what a gift! - and me nipping hither and thither by car-pooling, train, plane and my antediluvian Renault Clio. 

This blog, which seems to have morphed into a yearly newsletter, is a tribute to reaching out, to togetherness. It celebrates love, friendship, solidarity. After the - hopefully over - Covid years, it has to be relished. 

Phil, my long-distance partner who can only stay so long far from the sea - he lives on his yacht in Brittany - opened the year. A mild and sunny February saw us driving through the Gorges du Tarn, one of the many limestone canyons slashing through the south edges of the Massif Central, the volcanic mountain chain that dominates the centre of France. Villages impossibly clutched the cliffside above the rushing river, full with winter rains under a narrow band of sky high above, a jaw-dropping discovery for both.

We were on our way to stay with Sophie and Jean-Michel near Montpellier. It was already spring there, trees in bloom and hardly a nip in the air. Sophie and I did our nurse training together in the eighties and we suffered then (and have suffered since) of irrepressible mirth every time we're together. Much joy around the table, many bottles of local wines opened, Phil dizzy with all that French spoken to him without filter, a hike to the pont du Gard - the 2000 year old Roman Aqueduct - a drive through the Camargue.

Bless their big hearts. 

In April, I saw my orchard fulfil its destiny in not just providing me with fruit but sheltering friends in camper vans. Ian, whom I had met years ago in Plakias youth hostel, Crete, was on his way back from Spain and Portugal where he had wintered away from Cologne. Because he follows my blog - I am flattered.  Not many do, it's too wordy -  he knew where I was. Life stories shared over aperitifs in the garden, hikes, more limestone cliffs and troglodyte villages. Bless his kindness. The sky was improbably blue over the house.

He was followed by Kate-Marie and Hazel, straight from Australia. We had come across each other in Alice Springs at a Soul motion dance workshop Kate-Marie was running ( See the  blog 'Dances with Flies'). But now, they were roaming around France to find THE place where to settle and were agonising about their choice, pendulum at the ready above maps. They finally elected Burgundy and have, as I write, just signed the contract on their new home in the northern hemisphere. The ladies know how to listen to signs. Bless their sense of adventure.

I still chuckle about how different their vans were. Ian's was functional, just what is needed for a translator working from a moving home. The ladies' had prayer flags and a basket for their little terrier, rescued from the Australian red centre.

Oh, what a joy it is when the wide world converges in my little hub. Shared stories are the stuff of life.

February felt like April, April felt like May, May felt like August and people in the village were looking at the sky with worried frowns, wondering if real rain would ever come. June heat came like a ton of bricks and my sister, Catherine, who always leaves Paris to stay with me on our shared birthday, was hugging the walls for shade like a ghost. She came back for Christmas, enjoying a temperature much more to her taste and took the opportunity to beat me flat in very competitive games of Scrabble. Blessed are devoted sisterhood and love of words.

July came blue and implacable. Alice, Phil's daughter, who lives in Croatia, was keen to walk a stretch of the camino. She tackled the logistics at my home and embarked on a week hike in over 40° heat. Anything else would feel easy after that. Ah but I see! It was just a training for northern bits of the Pacific Crest Trail, with snow still lingering on the summits and some pretty hairy paths, at least for those who, like me, fear heights. She doesn't, bless her intrepid spirit.

Another camino fan, Franzi from Berlin,  turned up in the autumn, a former walking companion. We happened on each other in 2018 while she was on a Berlin-Santiago hike, 5 months on her feet. We fitted again at once into the instant camino connection that ignores small talk. I dropped her in Cahors - a shorter way to go to the end of the earth this time - with promises to meet again in Germany. Bless her good-humoured determination.

As August was looming, I was closing the heavy wooden shutters by 10 am and not opening them until 5pm. By early afternoon, it was 52° on the terrace and the shade gave no respite. The garden was in survival mode, grass like straw crackling underfoot, flowers on strike, birds silent and flies the only stubborn sign of life. Nothing to do but grab a picnic, a cold beer, the lounger, a book and drive down to the river. 

That's when my good friend Idoia came from San Sebastian (Spain) and that's what we just did, as hiking was out of the question. Still, not wishing to become fossilised, we went on an epic canoe trip down the river, on whatever water was left. 

Her big favourite remained the hammock under the ash trees where she felt held like a baby, swaying lazily, a drink by her side. Bless the coziness of old friendship.

You get it. That summer was the summer to end all summers. I flew to England where people were complaining of 30° heat. It was great. 

I was surprised at how absurdly happy I was to be speaking English again and to be again in the midst of that easy-going, slightly chaotic English buzz. Even ordering a soggy cheese sandwich at Stanstead felt wonderful or sorting out with a harassed train employee an alternative to my freshly cancelled cross-country train to Peterborough. It was like wearing again an old favourite coat that had somehow retained the shape of me. It also brought home that I still feel sometimes out of step here in France, a bit...yes, foreign. Still, I found England rather busy. I guess I already got used to empty roads and unspoilt nature. 

I was to spend time with Phil on his boat at Ipswich marina but, before then, I wished to meet my dear long-time-no-see Nottinghamshire friends, the coven, or so we called ourselves, as we always cackled loudly and merrily when we met, fuelled with bubbly and a fond shared history. Sue, Zena, Cherry, Laura, this is to you with love. Cheers! I managed to cram a few more visits with Ann,  who feels like a sister, with Viv - so many good times listening to music and having a go at the wheel in her pottery workshop - and Kindy, the best Shiatsu lady, but alas was not able to see everybody in that neck of the woods that was my life for so long.  

It seems, for those who are in the know, that engineer work - if you want to do it yourself -  is difficult in France. Furthermore, ordering parts from the UK now incurs considerable custom fees (I will not mention the 'B' word). So Phil sailed to Britain, quite an undertaking, put his boat on stilts and got on with rebuilding the engine, using all his contacts for mysterious repairs, or so they appear to me. 

Oh I do love the big skies of that soft, dreamy Suffolk coast. What delight it was, for Phil and I, to tread the familiar paths to hidden coves along tidal rivers, to have lunch in the sun as the water laps close. 

My feet would find their way on their own, as if I had left yesterday. I even managed to meet up with Mark, my talented guitar teacher who would always show me easy ways through my favourite songs, and with Ann, potter extraordinaire, who used to let me share her studio for tinkering with clay.

In spite of the horror stories we hear in France about the situation in the UK and its succession of baffling prime ministers, I was so happy and relieved to see you were all doing well, my friends from across the channel. Bless your warm welcome and the joys of catching up.

The brightest sunbeam in a year filled with them, the one person who resurfaced after being stuck by Covid restrictions for over 2 years in Hongkong, was my daughter, Gwendoline. Hugging each other in tears at Charles de Gaulle airport, we swore that never again would we spend such a long time without seeing each other. She didn't know my house, my world. We had each other for a good two weeks and what didn't we do....Yes, canoeing down the river again, this time, herons, kingfishers, plenty of old stones, castles, swims, walks, good meals, a trip to Albi and its awesome cathedral, the gouffre de Padirac, wine tasting, chats and, through it all, the complicity of renewed togetherness. 

Then she left again and for a good while I couldn't sing anymore. She now lives in Sydney, Australia with her husband Jason (Here they are below on Lord Howe's island) and yes, it isn't next door, is it, but if there ever was a good country for them, this is it and one where I will love to visit. It's on the map for autumn 2023. Fingers crossed. Flight booked. Bless my lovely daughter, my golden girl.

A grand tour is actually being planned. Carmen and Bobby reached out to me from Bali where I met them in 2019. They'll be getting married in August and I'm so very touched to be invited and celebrate with them. So yes! And it is but a small hop on the plane to Australia from there. I eventually will be able to write a travel blog again!!

I won't talk about the hub... my house and the mountain of improvements that happened here, a new septic tank - very glamorous - the barn floor concreted over, the kitchen refurbished (above), the vine trained, subsidies from the government for 'la transition écologique'  partially financing a wood-pellet boiler, insulation, double-glazing.  I guess the latter isn't improving the national debt but bless, bless, bless! I won't talk about the solidarity of neighbours, ready to lend strong arms and know-how. I won't mention the many impromptu meals shared in the garden, the music sessions with Pierre on the harmonica, pottery and guitar lessons in Figeac. Bless the gentle, friendly people of the Lot.

Yes, celebrating openness is not a luxury : there is no downplaying the influence of a pandemic on one's soul. I can't remember who told me they noticed the French don't kiss so much any more when we greet, but it is true  : distance has made an entrance. Life in a bubble still has faithful aficionados. The shock still lives in the collective psyche. And this is here, in a country with an excellent health system where the pandemic came and went, hopefully for good, in relative comfort for most. 

Still, I'd rather continue to kiss.

So, of course, I caught the damn thing in February 2022 and it is only when I was huffing and puffing behind Laura, up some steep  hillock in the Peak District in August that I realised I had lost some of the stamina to climb, something I never really enjoyed anyway but that I could do if it would get me somewhere. 

There she is, Laura, really to tackle anything.

The following December, it was Phil's turn to succumb to the virus as he was at my home to celebrate the festive season. The consequences took us unawares :  a mad dash to the A&E in Cahors with his blood pressure suddenly to the roof, followed by tablets, an appointment with the cardiologist. all rather a shock for him who never saw a doctor before. How will he be able to maintain his way of life on the boat? 

However, he still managed to prune the trees in the orchard, saw, sand and paint and fit nifty lights in dark corners. His eagle eye spotted all the snags. Bless his generous, loving heart.

And then, a good month after Christmas, a postcard festive weather hit us with 20 cm of snow, and temperatures barely over 0°C for over a week. Snowball fights in the blizzard, feeling like kids again, leaving our prints on the pristine, pure, expanse.

It is only March so, it's not too late to send you all my warmest wishes. May this new year be good to you, may your plans come to fruition, may harmony reign in and around you, may your health and vitality remain strong and may we not forget how privileged we are.

'Ring out the old, ring in the new

Ring happy bells across the snow'

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...