Getting Back On Track

Vineyards near Asperes



We are embarking on our second autumn and now that the clocks have gone back, Jean does the rounds at 6pm and closes the shutters and draws the curtains. Instead of barbequeing sausages out in the courtyard for supper, we now settle in and drink thick homemade soup and await the arrival of the cold. So far we are still eating lunch outside and putting on the sun cream, so no sign of the cold that gripped us last year - or at least not yet.

It was a huge relief to come back from Australia to find that there had been good rain and the grip of a long hot summer had finally loosened. We could vaguely recall a downpour on the 5th July but that was about all we to show for it with regards to summer rainfall, and the back garden looked more like the Gobi Desert than anything else. It was so good to hunker down last weekend and watch the rain lashing down for the best part of three days, and the almost immediate change in the remaining plants and grass is extraordinary. They were totally disinterested in our sprinkler system and the fact that we lovingly carted water to each of the tubs and hanging baskets and they slouched and sulked throughout the heat, but now we have a masses of bright violas and a swathe of green grass, and all the old stonework has developed a fuzz of moss.

Our three fish have clearly been busy, because now we have seven fish. They are still stupidly shy and hide their heads under a lily pad leaf in the same way that a child will cover its' eyes and think that you can't see it. It never occurs to the fish that two thirds of its body is still sticking out. At least the youngsters seem a bit more friendly and are starting to register that if we are around, there is a fair chance of a bit of fish food appearing as well.

Bertha the dove has vanished and I just hope that she found a new partner during the summer months. I looked around for any sign that the neighbour's cat had pounced on her, but so far so good. The little blue tits are always around pecking at the fat balls but at last the arguing magpies have moved off after devouring six of the eight pears that we were nursing along. If only the constantly barking Doberman two doors along would also move off, life would be a much quieter thing with regards to our animal kingdom. However, I did threaten to report him to the Mairie this morning and he instantly went quiet, even though I made the threats in the privacy of the bathroom! Maybe he has a French/English dictionary and looked up the meaning of "Why don't you damn well shut up dog".

The countryside is ablaze with colour right now, and going anywhere is like driving through an oil painting. Great swathes of vines dress the hillsides and valleys in gold and burnt orange while above, the arc of the sky remains clear and blue. We visited the Sommieres market last weekend and it was sheer delight to wander the stalls without the crush of tourists, and then find all our old pals appearing for a midday pichet of wine and a gossip.

Although we miss our Australian family, it was no hardship to return to France, but I just wish that they could travel in this direction to share some of the beauty with us. I suppose that in time, we will have grandchildren appearing with backpacks and various partners, and come one, come all, they will be so welcome.

Membership of the American Women's Group has proved to be invaluable, and now that the summer recess is over, there is a positive smorgasbord of activities coming up. We are blessed with good friends and even the fun of a borrowed dog from time to time. Plans are being laid for Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year parties and the barrage of gunfire on a Sunday morning leads me to believe that a fair number of wild boar and rabbits are finding their way into local fridges.

We have now been in France for fifteen months which means we have witnessed two lots of village bull-running and two grape harvests, and now we look towards the end of the year, happy in the knowledge that at last we are in the right place at the right time.

An Australian Update

It's strange waking up to the sound of kookaburras and seeing the kangaroos hopping around in the field opposite the house, but just so wonderful to be here with the family.

The flight over was slightly more exciting that we had anticipated, and Hong Kong failed to lay out the welcome mat. A typhoon was battering the coastline, and although the Captain managed to guide the massive 747 down below the worryingly low cloud level, the 50 knot cross winds made it impossible to land, and with a roar of engines, we climbed back into the clag and headed for Manila.

I wished I had paid more attention in geography classes as I had not the faintest idea where Manila was, and having spotted it on the airline map, I then began to wonder if the Phillipines were enjoying a period of political stability or would there be a row of tanks parked across a very short runway. As it happened, the Captain greased the plane onto the exceptionally long airstrip and parked alongside a very modern airport building, and we spent three hours kicking our heels on board while they refuelled and we all waited for the weather to clear in Hong Kong. Back we went, and this time he made it down onto the runway set between the mountains and the sea, and was rewarded with a round of applause from the tired passengers.

By the time we were up and away once more, we were six hours behind schedule, and instead of a civilised 8pm arrival time, it was nearly 4am when we reached the house outside Melbourne. Those little faces that we were longing to see were tucked up in bed, and we all had to wait to be re-united while Granny and Grandpa enjoyed seven hours desperately needed sleep.

By yesterday evening, everyone except Pete who is currently in Thailand but who will return on Friday, had been hugged. My five grandchildren have all grown in the past two years, but it felt as though it was only a few months ago since I had seen them last. Yes, it's a long way to come, but it is so worth it.

Today we had decided to visit Melbourne for the day, but the jet lag kicked in and the rain clouds descended and instead of braving the city, we waved off the workers and students from the house and crept back under the duvet for some more sleep. Our long sleeved shirts and jerseys have been unpacked and put to good use and it's clear that although it's not that cold, or that warm, that Australia is currently enjoying what can only be described as "Sprinter". We leave for New Zealand on Saturday, and I can't help wondering if the temperatures are going to be a little less clement than they are here. Never mind - it will be the realisation of a long held dream to finally get to see South Island in company with Claire and her family, and right now, it is hard to work out who is the most excited between the adults and the children.

An editorial note: Since this is a blog for general reading, no comments are ever posted or read. My computer is set to delete comments on receipt so I have no idea what they say. This is no longer my regular blog regarding our French life and my readers know where to find the new one.

Summertime and the Living is Noisy

Ah - blissful tranquil somnolent summer days with merely the buzzing of bees and the occasional scrape of cigale wings to be heard. The hammock sways gently beneath the perfumed bay leaves and a frivolous breeze occasionally rustles through the long grasses. A faraway splashing of water flowing into the swimming pool and the clunk of an icecube dropping into a tall refreshing drink merely serves to remind us that this is summer in the south of France.


Actually No! Not quite. To create this sort of idyll, one has to be either extremely lucky, or live in a beautiful old farmhouse way out in the vineyards, miles from a road or a neighbour.


All the component parts are present, and just once in a while, there is the opposite of The Perfect Storm, and there is Perfect Peace, but don't expect to be able to lay your book down, remove your glasses and drift off to sleep, because it's not going to last. Lunchtime is a quiet time, but the temperatures have normally climbed up into the mid thirties, and only a mad dog or an Englishman would venture out to the pool. However, if you do take a chance, you are met with the sounds of scraping cutlery, clashing plates, and loud family discussions coming over the fence. A dog that has lain quietly in the shade will suddenly take it into his head to rush to the gate and bark abuse at a passing postman, and this is the signal for all the other dogs in the neighbourhood to put in their sixpence worth. Cigales are another myth. Admittedly they do rely on temperature and today, when the thermometer hasn't quite made it to the requisite number, they remain silent. But on a hot day, you can set your watch by them, and it is sometimes quite hard to make yourself heard over the cacophony of scraping wings. It only takes one to start up and the entire countryside is suddenly filled with the racket.


Summer time is buzz-bike time in France. Country roads, off-piste tracks through the garrigue, village squares and towns are a mecca for these two-wheeled producers of a high pitched whine, sounding for all the world like a plague of infuriated mosquitoes. Apparently a bike that doesn't emit a loud noise isn't worth the money you pay for it, and will never attract that necessary addition which is the young girl with the flowing hair and mini skirt perched behind the driver. One other fun addition is the radio strapped to the handlebars which emits loud pop music in the same manner as the fine lady who rode a white horse to Banbury Cross. "She shall have music wherever she goes" and so will the surrounding countryside.


Swimming pools become a gathering place for children, none of whom appear to be able to converse in anything other than high pitched decibels, as they argue over the floating armchair, the lilo and the inflatable ball. With Dad still at work and Mum trying to catch a couple of moments of peace after lunch, the kids are left to wreak havoc on siesta time, and such is their stamina, that they can keep it up until well into the evening.


But at last peace returns. The cavalcade of commuters finish driving past the house, exhausted children fall into bed, parents retire to the couch and the TV, and the last whiff of barbequed chicken floats away on the evening breeze. The dogs are either confined to kennels or are sleeping soundly after a long day of barking, and the cigales have closed up shop for the night.


This is the time to go out into the garden and sit quietly in the cooling air. This is the hour to see shooting stars and watch the satellites navigating their way across the heavens. The local cockerels are catching a few hours sleep on their perches and the lawnmowers and strimmers have been packed away for the night.


It's not the summer days in the south of France that make it the best place on earth to be - it's those summer nights.

Summer Visitors

Last week a friend announced that she was coming to visit. By a visit, I don't mean that I had to wash the sheets, make up beds and scour the bathroom, but it did mean that a little housework would have to be undertaken. She was only popping in to pick up something, but we all know that a pop can turn into a magical mystery tour. "Oh what a dear little kitchen - how many bedrooms do you have - may I use the bathroom - oh a courtyard, how lovely".

It's the not knowing which is sometimes worse than the knowing, so rather than take a chance, Jean and I have developed a swift but successful method of blitzing the house and courtyard which takes us 2 hours to have the place gleaming. I sweep and vacuum while he washes the stone floors. We share the bathroom and kitchen and he washes the terrace while I sweep the courtyard, and in no time it is pristine and ready for inspection.

Having lived so very far away for so long, we don't have the sort of friends that our friends here have. They do say that once you have a house in the south of France, you discover friends and relatives whose funerals you could have sworn you went to fifteen years ago, especially if you have made the move from the UK to here.

"Oh dear, I've got Susie and Mark coming for the weekend, and then Lydia is coming for an overnight stop en route to Cannes. She'll just be gone when Melinda and Clarissa and their dog Hector are coming for two days and I have no idea what to do with the cats".

Life for some becomes a constant round of changing sheets, re-visiting the Nimes arena for the fifth time in a month, burning to a crisp on a beach that you would never think of visiting, and eating and drinking copious amounts of hot goat cheese and cold rose wine. Your vision of spending the summer months lying in a shady hammock with a pile of good books and lots of Evian disappears into a welter of crammed carparks, vehicles that you could fry an egg on, queues on motorways and inflated ticket prices for everything.

We, on the other hand, only know people who already live here, and some of those, like us, have come from regions of the world that are too far away to attract an endless stream of guests. We are the ones who can be found sneaking along the back country roads through the vineyards, and never venturing outside unless it is for a quick dip in the pool before returning to the hammock under the trees.

We watch the BBC weather forecast each morning and feel sorry for those who have opted for three weeks under canvas in Devon or a walking holiday in Cumbria. Meantime, we mop our perspiring brows, reach for another bottle of cold water and rest on our dusted laurels.

Summertime And The Living Is Easy

Zulu Dancers - just one of the summer time entertainments on offer

The phone rang a little while ago and I tumbled out of my hammock and raced to pick it up, knowing that it would be my nautical pal, just back from a week on the briny.

"How was your week?" I demanded

"Which day?" she responded, and we made a pact to get together later on to share details that would doubtless cover the gory and the glory of a week on board a relatively small boat with two other family members for company.

But there was no time to dwell on the past - this is summer and almost every night there is some form of entertainment available, and tonight, she informed me, there is a group from Johannesburg playing a gig at our local quarry that has been turned into a concert venue.

"You've always said that African music gets you dancing" she said firmly when I started sounding a bit feeble.

"Yes, but I meant African music played on drums and guitars - the sort of thing you hear in the shebeens - not Electro Pop".

"Oh come on, it'll be fun, and anyway, you won't be able to sleep because it'll be so loud you won't stand a chance."

I tried explaining that I had actually hurt my hip while behaving like a thirty year old instead of a sixty year old the other day, but I gave up the fight and said that if the music was good enough, I would dance on one leg.

Before they went away, we had made the effort to go with them to the free concerts in Castries, and thoroughly enjoyed the brass jazz band and the two very slick tap dancers who accompanied them, and then settled in to the smooth sounds of Jango Reinhardt played by an excellent trio. The light breeze ruffled through the surrounding trees and the music aficionados took in every note while their children ran about among the shrubbery that surrounded the arena.

There's nothing too serious about the music in this part of the world - nobody pretends that they are at Glyndebourne or dresses for the Opera. Music here entails an easily pleased audience, a couple of young lads barbecuing sausages at the back and a man selling cold beers out of a large tin bath full of ice. The children know enough not to annoy the audience with their games, and the audience look on them like rather boisterous puppies.

Each evening on television, traffic jams starting from the north of France are shown on a large map of France, and everyone seems to be headed in this direction. Our idea of the tourist season is to make use of the unmarked back roads that lead through the vineyards, shop before anyone crawls out of bed, and stay as far away from the beach, the Nimes arena, the Place de la Comedie in Montpellier and the A9 Route as we possibly can.

Eventually they'll all leave, and we'll have it to ourselves once more. OK we might not have the freebie concerts, but there's the grape harvest to look forward to and the cycle of French life will continue to turn - speaking of which, we watched the last cyclist pass the finish line in Paris yesterday. The Tour de France is over and from now on, you can forget getting anything fixed, ordered, answered or dealt with until the end of August. The Mayor is on holiday - it's official!

A Life On The Ocean Wave

The true colour of the Med


Third Mate Jean keeping up the family nautical tradition



Ship's Cook and Tillerman i.e. the Third Mate's Mate

Our trusty craft with Jean being advised on parking by the ship's dog

We are blessed to have good friends who own a yacht. Now before you imagine us aboard some glitzy ocean-going sleek white, fully staffed gin palace, this is a proper sailing boat with real sails that you hoist yourself without a battery operated switch, a jib, a mainsail, a tiller and lots and lots of ropes (which I must remember to call sheets). She has a cosy cabin that will sleep four at a squeeze and not a lot by way of luxury facilities. But that's OK, because we had been invited to sail and I was tickled pink.

Last Wednesday, we chugged out of Port Camargue and launched ourselves onto an unsuspecting nautical world. Of the four of us on board, one was an expert sailor, one was in serious training, I had fiddled about with a racing dinghy years ago, and the fourth crew member was willing but relatively untried.

The wind couldn't be described as strong. The term "light" would have worked for a while, and then the word "becalmed" began to be bandied about on board. The mainsail flapped aimlessly and the jib hung like limp washing. It was time to break out the ships biscuits in order to stave off mutiny. I love sailing with men. They have no interest in plates, salads, knives and forks. Give them a hunk of bread, a chunk of sausage, a bottle of water and a thick slice of cold melon, and you've got a happy sailor.

"We're going to put the spinaker up" the Captain informed us. His eye swept around his cowering crew and fortunately landed on the young fit agile pupil. "Remember - one hand for the boat and one for yourself", and the two of them headed forward and did a lot of fiddling about with hanks of rope, short poles with funny names and massive acres of sail. I stayed at my post on the tiller while Jean moved from one side of the boat to the other, keeping some sort of balance while all the action went on at the sharp end.

A rattle of wires, a hauling of rope and a billowing of sail, and the spinaker filled with wind. The yacht reacted like a young horse being turned out into a field. I could feel the craft begin to connect with the tiller and the little pennants on the stay wires began to flap. We were moving forward and instead of the baking sun, we had a fresh breeze on our faces.

Everything connected and for a happy half hour we bowled along with the spinaker making maxium use of the weak wind, but sadly, we were headed for the port once more. I willed the wind to pick up, but it was more likely that it would die totally, and then we would be reduced to the ignominy of either getting back to shore with help from the engine, or being stuck out at sea deciding whether or not we were going to eat the dog.

I am officially hooked - I want to sail again, and soon. And this time, I hope that Mother Nature will play her part and send us a bit more wind. Maybe not the 50 knots that our Captain had once sailed in, but enough to get our pulses racing while we skim across the surface of the incredibly translucent blue Mediterannean sea.

A Bird Called Bertha

Bertha (or maybe Bert) awaiting breakfast


She only picks out the fine seed and kicks the rest out
for the magpies and those "terribly common pigeons" to find


Lying in my hammock the other day, making every effort to stay awake long enough to read another chapter of my book before dropping off to sleep in the somnolent heat of the afternoon, I became aware that just below me was a small white dove sporting a black feathered collar.


At first I lay absolutely still for fear of frightening her away, but she looked up at me, and gave the dove equivalent of a yawn, and continued pecking and picking among the leaves. This dove was definitely not afraid.


A day or two later, I became aware of an insistent call emanating from the line of trees in the back garden. "Co Coo Coo - Co Coo Coo". On and on it went until it became more than a little annoying. "Hey - shove off and do that somewhere else" I suggested, in a manner that I am sure David Attenborough would find most offensive. I waved my broom at her but it only resulted in her flapping to the next available branch and carrying on.


After two or three days of this behaviour, I began to realise that the dove was demanding more than just my attention, and if I wanted any peace, I had better work out what it was that she wanted in return. In the garage, I had some left-over wildbird seed from the winter, and taking a small pot of the grain, I whistled the same repeated call, and low and behold, she flapped down and sat on the bird table and waited for her breakfast to come.


For two weeks now, Bertha the Bird has arrived earlier and earlier, and I have learned to sleep with an earplug next to the bed rather than put up with her 4.30am room service demands. She seems to have got the message and now awaits for my 8am appearance, probably mocking my tousled hair and voluminous cotton nightdress.


"Co Coo Coo" she sings, as I sprinkle her seed on the table and bid her "Good morning Bertha". She eats, she flutters down into the pond for a quick wash and brush-up, and then with one more backward beady look, she flies up and away to the woods.

But there is more to the story - Bertha has a past! My best friend Maggie tells me that doves mate for life and yet Bertha is always alone. The previous inhabitant of the house mentions a dove that she used to feed here five years ago who sounds suspiciously like Bertha. If doves can live for up to twenty years, then perhaps she is a broken-hearted lonely widow.

I think I'd better give her an extra scoop tomorrow, and I'll never again say "Shoo shoo" when she says "Co Coo"