Photos of the Spring garden

I went to the physio this morning and he felt the muscles in my upper right arm and looked at me rather speculatively. Thank heavens our French/English exchanges are fairly limited so I didn't have to explain that I had spent much of the weekend wielding a pickaxe and a shovel. Instead we discussed his art and an upcoming book fair and exhibition in Palavas and then went on to work out the various tenses of "We will go", "We have been" and "We are going". I fear that my French lessons are going to expire at the same time as my physio sessions, and they have all been so sweet and helpful and I shall miss them.

I had an extraordinary email yesterday from an American who is currently in Lesotho and who is doing a PhD on people who lived in ex colonies in Africa. He was interested in reading my autobiography "Cannibals to Croissants" and asked where I had got my information from. I had to point out that I had actually "lived" the book long before I wrote it, but that I had also gained access to the old Club records dating back to 1946. From those I have drawn plenty of amusing anecdotes that have been used in my novel "On Which The Sun Has Set". It did occur to me that this young man clearly viewed my experiences as in some way historical. Meantime, I view a great many of them as hysterical apart from the few times when things weren't all that funny.

I wrote a limerick for the American Women's Group St Patrick's Day party which you might enjoy reading. I forgot to take it with me, so here it is - better late than never!

The last time that I saw St Drezery
I said to myself "I am desole,
There is really no chance
That we'll wind up in France"
But instead, we are here on St Patricks Day.

It was Terri to whom goes our thanks
It was she who said "Come join our ranks,
We are keen, we are funny
It won't cost much money
So here we are - honorary Yanks!

We have lived in the States for five years
Made good friends and had very few fears.
Just a couple of blows
From some ladies we know
Called Katrina and Wilma - such dears!

But now we're in France and that's great
And we know that it isn't too late
To make some new friends
And to learn some new trends
Thanks for having us - From Jean and from Kate.





The front garden comes back to life


Looking up the driveway lined with daffs and hyacinths



The forsythia is lovely this year but needs a haircut




Some of my birthday plants in the courtyard plus a wonderful gift of assorted herbs. Now I can make my own horseradish sauce!

The Wearing Of The Green

The stones that demarcated the circle are on the move


The liner has been glued to the right size and the filling begins



By Sunday evening we are making progress

Katie O'Fagaldy ready for the St Paddy's Party

I only have to say the words "You know, I've been thinking" and Jean goes very pale and still and mutters "Oh no, what now?"

When I looked at that circle of stones with the sheet of bedrock in the bottom, I didn't see a hole in the ground, but had a clear vision of a tranquil water garden with lilies, tumbling plants and goldfish swimming happily beneath the surface in the dappling sunshine.

OK so we haven't actually ordered the goldfish or made our way to the nursery to purchase the tumbling plants, but it is starting to take shape. My physiotherapist is going to take one look at the knotted muscles in my arms tomorrow and wonder what on earth I have been doing, but perhaps I had better not share too much detail with him!

I could always blame it on a lively St Patricks Day party that we attended last night. The American Women's Group had arranged a very pleasant gathering in a nearby home of one of their members, and before long, we were exchanging limericks and standing around the piano singing "Oh Danny Boy" while one or two members had a little cry. The table was filled with a wide assortment of finger food, much of it in various shades of green, and everyone had made an effort to dress in a similar colour.

"Don't touch me or my shamrock will fall out" is not the usual greeting one expects when attempting to embrace a friend in France, but it was a very jolly get-together, and one that I am sure will be repeated often.

It is now Sunday evening and I am very tempted to go and pour some aromatherapy oil into the pond and soak my aching back and arms, but with my luck, a passing heron will mistake me for some massive frog.

The temperature today at lunchtime was 28C and we were actually forced to move into the shade - and this is only March. I have the feeling that come August, the goldfish are going to have to move over and make room for me.

Casting The Clouts and Pool Building

Gone down about a foot - what have I started!


Still no sign of the cherry tree stump



Bed rock bottom - time to rethink the project.

I know that there are some people who will call me crazy. Come to think of it, throughout most of my adult life there have been people who call me crazy so no change there then!

It is such a gorgeous day that I have removed the thermal vest, taken off the long sleeved shirt, shed the thick blue jersey and the brushed cotton track suit bottoms, the black socks and the boots. For those of you who can stand the excitement, I have replaced them with my beloved Crocs from Australia, my mini skirt which is not for public viewing, and my white short-sleeved tee shirt. I daresay it is enough to send the Postman running for cover, but too bad. I have declared it Spring and I have to do something about my lily-white legs.

In the back garden we have a circle of rocks about 3m in diameter. Apparently it used to contain a large cherry tree which was filled to the point of collapse with bright red cherries each summer. Sadly it fell over one day and I have just discovered why.

I've been eyeing the circle of rocks for some time which always makes Jean nervous, and this morning "I picked up my shovel and walked to the mine".

The soil was temptingly soft and friable and as I dug deeper, I had to cut through a network of thin roots, but no sign of any cherry tree stump. I went another spade full deeper and discovered why. There is a solid sheet of rock underneath which has brought my excavations to a halt. Now I have to decide if I am going to turn the hole into a very shallow swimming pool or a fish pond. Jean says that if I sit in the hole with an egg whisk, I can imagine that I have my own jacuzzi but it would be a lonely pastime as there would only be room for one.

This isn't my first experience of digging a pool. Many years ago while still living in Lesotho, I managed to get hold of a relatively cheap pool liner, and rounding up about ten small African boys, we started to dig the hole. A resident road building engineer in town at the time worked out that between us, we had shifted more soil in a day than one of his digging machines, but he didn't know about the combination of carrot and stick, and to this day I can't smell tinned pilchards without thinking of that team of diggers toiling away in the blazing sun.

Since this hole definitely won't allow me to swim across it, or even sit down in it, I think the time has come to ask Uncle Google about fish ponds, oxygenating plants, waterfalls, pumps and goldfish. Jean has extensive knowledge of these things and already I can see a glint in his eye as he checks out the distance from the nearest stand pipe to the pool.

OK It won't be ready for Monet to come and paint the water lilies for a while, but just give it a year and check back. Meantime I am going to dig out the spray-on tan. Patience never was my best attribute.

My Official and Unofficial Birthday

Nella and Kate proving that the "pinky" is still working!

Jean gets the boules going while the rest talk up a thirst

Louise, Nella and Jean preparing for the after lunch championships

I might not be as old as Her Majesty and I most certainly don't have her finances, but I definitely felt like the Queen on Sunday. My 60th birthday was actually a couple of weeks ago, but we decided that in order to take a chance on some slightly warmer weather, we would wait until the first week in March to have the birthday party. What a brilliant decision. If we had ordered the weather over the internet and given the supplier a year to ensure perfection, we couldn't have done better.

Having got the weather sorted, the next thing was to ensure the right mix of guests, and once again we scored big time. Friends newly made over glasses of wine at the Sommieres Saturday market plus other friends introduced by chance meetings, and folks that we had only met a week ago made up the guest list, and it turned out to be a perfect mix of languages, interests and fun.

Jean had lined up our four sets of boules on the garden wall, and in no time, he had a group of "newbies" getting the hang of the game and becoming increasingly competitive. The pastis went unopened but the wine flowed, and before things got really serious, I called a halt for lunch.

Our dining room table extends at both ends and we sat ten people in comfort, and thanks to plenty of early preparation, I managed to produce a large "Snake and Pygmy Pie" with vegetables and roasted potatoes. However, the sunshine called to us and we moved back into the courtyard for delicious deserts and coffee drunk out of my beautiful new demi-tasse cups. One guest bought a large box of plants for the garden and another presented me with a charming pottery dish which matched the coffee cups, and everyone arrived bearing a bottle of excellent wine. Glasses were raised and everyone gave a pretty good rendition of "Happy Birthday to You" and looking around at the smiling faces, the bright sunshine and the slowly melting ice cream, I decided that I was perfectly happy being me and didn't envy the Queen at all!

Making new friends

I make no claims to being any sort of a gardener. My mother who has created the most lovely English country garden always says that it is the result of a series of mistakes, but I happen to believe that there was a lot of sound common sense and a fair bit of knowledge mixed in. She was also prepared to work alongside Mother Nature and the result is a garden that is filled with delightful nooks and corners all of which call for a good book, a comfortable chair and a tray of tea.

Thanks to a fortunate succession of introductions, phone calls and kindness, today I was invited to join a group of ladies who all belong to the American Women's Group of Languedoc Roussillon. http://www.awglr.org/ .

Despite not being American, I was made to feel very welcome and found myself in a group of women, who like me, could claim to be citizens of the world rather than being based solely in one country. Many were married to Frenchmen and a couple heartily sympathised with my inability to speak French despite being in the same situation. "It's a bit like getting your husband to teach you to drive" we all agreed - "Not a good idea"!

Today a group of us visited a local nursery which specialises in dry gardens, and despite a cold harsh wind blowing off the Cevennes Mountains, we all gathered inside one of the large greenhouses while the nurseryman shared his extensive knowledge with us. Although unable to follow much of the French, I was impressed with my companions who not only understood everything, but asked all the right questions. Meantime, I was just happy to be surrounded by acres of plants from South Africa, South America, Mexico, Australia and New Zealand, all of which would cope very happily in the hot dry conditions that prevail in this corner of France throughout the summer months.

Having made our purchases and written up our notes, we headed back to the home of one of the members where we shared a delicious "pot luck" lunch. Any meal that involves smoked salmon, shrimp creole, warm fennel and a fabulous orange desert strikes me as being anything but "pot luck" and I felt that the luck lay with me for being there in the company of these interesting women.

Will I return to the nursery? - you bet!
Will I join the ladies of the American Women's Group? - you bet!
Has it been a good day?- you know the answer.

http://www.pepiniere-arc-en-fleurs.com/cotejardin.htm

Preparing for Summer

We've succeeded in moving a couple more of the huge rocks in the courtyard - only two more to go!


The hammock slung under the bay-tree hedge and a lovely sunny spot to sit against the wall



Despite the concrete, the front garden is filling up with daffodils and hyacinths

The wild bank along the back garden newly planted with bulbs

As I walked through the garden centre yesterday, it occurred to me that I get far more pleasure roaming about among the bags of potting mixture, the trays of plants and the racks of seed packets and tools than I ever get looking through rails of clothes or shelves of face creams and perfumes.

While still living in America, someone accused me of having had my "shopping gene" surgically removed, and I think they might be right. However, something that I do sorely miss here in France are the wonderful charity shops of dear old England. For three years, we lived in a rather upmarket region of West Sussex, and I found it huge fun to clothe myself in the cast-offs of the rich and famous who appeared in an outfit for polo, and then couldn't possibly be seen in it again.

When I was invited to lecture aboard the QE2, I realised that I would have to come up with a highly presentable wardrobe that would allow me to stand on the stage in front of an audience, and whirl around the dance floor with the Captain. Thanks to Macmillan Cancer Research, I achieved both with an outlay of less than a hundred pounds, and was constantly being complimented for my varied smart outfits. It is completely beyond me why anyone would part with two hundred and fifty quid for jacket that they could buy for twenty at a really good charity shop. I just wish that France had something along the same lines, but maybe the French pay so much for their fabulous clothes that they hang on to them like grim death.

So back to the garden centre. It is now time to turn serious attention to the garden, but having undergone not one but three spinal operations, I do have to treat my back with a fair amount of respect or else it punishes me brutally. Gardening at waist height is my ideal way of creating a beautiful living space outside, but unfortunately there is only so much of the garden which can be raised to accomplish this.

My one achievement however, is to have come up with a number of large homemade grow bags into which have gone a layer of stones and gravel, and then a layer of thick well rotted compost, topped off with some fine seived soil. I have planted them up with quite a variety of things, and by the time summer comes, I hope we will be enjoying the fruits of my labours and eating aubergines, courgettes, lettuce, red peppers, green beans, peas, spinach and tomatoes. I am all for supporting the local vegetable markets, but if I can grow it myself, those funds can be used to purchase the next lot of seed.

Tomorrow I am off to a nursery that specialises in dry hot gardens. After some nice rain, ours looks anything but dry and hot, but I must try and recall what last August was like, and make every attempt to march in step with Mother Nature.

Super Saturday and Soporific Sunday

Jean making our lunchtime purchases


The busy Uzes street on market day


Is there anything nicer than waking up on a Sunday morning to the sound of gentle rain on the roof, with the knowledge that you are not required to be anywhere, do anything particular or account to anyone for your actions. This morning was just such a day and I have to confess that it was hovering dangerously close to 9am before I got my "B" into "G" and got the coffee on the go.

Yesterday was a very full day, and with map in hand and a full tank of fuel, we drove north towards Ledignan, but veered off east and headed for Uzes. So many people had told us about the wonders of the Uzes market, but had also warned us of the horrors of parking. I think they might have oversold us on the first point, but were definitely right about the second.


Unlike Sommieres where the entire town centre is sealed off to traffic, and pedestrians are free to meander among the myriad stalls, Uzes keep the roads open, and visitors dice with traffic, undecided shoppers who continually pause with their roll-along shopping bags, and the clientele of the busy coffee shops who spill out onto the already full pavements.


We noted that a large number of stalls were dedicated to the sale of clothes, rather like the Lunel market, but we only found a couple of decent bread stalls and very little else by way of food apart from a number of dried sausage stands and some good herbs and spice vendors. At least Lunel has the fabulous plant market and of course it also boasts the best sacristans in the vicinity, but I think that Sommieres is winning our "best market" award for the time being.

We didn't find sacristans, but there was a most amiable lady selling fougasse, and having already been waylaid by another amiable lady selling caramel coated peanuts, we were fairly well insured against going too mad on the food shopping. The plan had been for a picnic to go with our coffee, but in the end, we drove north once more and found ourselves high above the valley floor in the foothills of the Cevennes mountains where we drank hot coffee and nibbled the last of the fougasse. All around us, we could see the bright orange jackets of hunters perched on rocks and behind bushes waiting for a rabbit who wasn't concentrating, but as the hands on my watch reached midday, there was a mad rush as every hunter raced down the hill to his vehicle and hurtled off down the road for lunch.

It was quite strange to see how quickly both the countryside and the architecture changed as we entered this new region. Great outcrops of rock often bore the ruins of some fortress that had been built in a dizzying fashion, and I couldn't help but feel that there had to be the remains of more than one of the workmen scattered among the rocks hundreds of feet below. The sunshine that had shone on us down in the valley was fast giving way to a layer of cloud moving up from the coast, and with the visibility failing, we decided to cut short our extended tour, and having meandered through the Gardon valley above Ales, we joined the main route and headed south for Ledignan.

The villages in this region looked more Swiss than French, and tight knit cottages clearly built for the coal miners in region looked as tough and rugged as the men who had inhabited them. But the great wheel at the pit head stood still and the glass from the windows of the old buildings had long ago fallen out and there was an abandoned air about the place. Maybe with the ever-increasing cost of oil, these coal mines will return to life and the villages will once again echo to the ring of miners boots.




We got home in time for a sustaining glass of wine before getting tidied up and going to the Salle Polyvalente which pretty much means "all purpose hall". The Mayor and village officials had organised a welcome evening for the newcomers and after a brief presentation on what the village had to offer, there was time for a chat, a glass of wine and some rather nice sausage meat baked in pastry. When we commented on the extent of the turnout, the Mayor shrugged and said "Where there is free wine, there are people".

We were happy to meet up with a young couple, she from England and he from France, with two delightful little boys who were completely bi-lingual. How I envied the way they could switch back and forth without even thinking about it. The boys are just about school-going age so won't need to benefit from the free creche which is run in the village for the children of parents who have to commute to Montpellier for work. However, they might soon join the other youngsters at the large new football stadium, or the music school or the drama academy or in the growing library while being educated at the fast growing school. Meantime, we could join the gym, the walking club, the theatrical society, the historical society and the tennis club, and prepare to enjoy the festive offerings by way of bull running, the 14th July celebrations and the annual concerts at the local quarry.


We got back home in time for me to watch Henry VIII wrecking his first marriage in order to wreck his second, and since I knew the end of the story, I settled for half an hour of easy-going British comedy and then tumbled into bed.

Do you wonder that we are happy to have a Soporific Sunday!