A horse's eye

After utterly depressing myself with the world news this morning - small-handed, pathetic, orange wanna-be king watching his birthday-commanded tanks roll past him while most of the country (or the rational beings anyway) were out in the streets showing their ardent disgust; everything going on in the giant dust cloud of the Middle East; the thousands of dollars wasted; the thousands of people killed, the thousands of weapons used and re-ordered; our animal, bird, fish and plant brethren maimed, polluted and wiped away - I went out for the morning dog walk. 

We paced into the vineyards; Bali smelt and tried eat unspeakable things, and I attempted to block out the visions of world 'leaders' and drying up lakes etc by musing on cloud structures, fattening walnuts and plums, bees droning amongst weeds that had been left alone, and generally admiring nature in all its glory - not that vineyards are necessarily the best example of unadulterated nature, but their reassuring green stripyness stretching off into the undulating hills was calming to the mind. 

Half an hour into the walk I was still haunted by various visions of human political and environmental stupidity - unusual as by now a sighting of a vine lizard, or appreciating lark song would have shifted the angst, but it was heavily ingrained this morning. 

We topped a hill and two horses stood, tails wafting at flies, their gazes turned upon us. Horses are always intrigued by Bali who could I suppose look like a very small, spidery horse. They followed us and then stopped, possibly anticipating food other than grass? or they were just curious. I never know if horses like being stroked, but I generally like to 'have a go' as I like the contact with such majestic beasts. I caressed the larger one's neck and as ever stared into a deep brown pool of an eye; an eye that seemed to hold all the knowledge and humility that we as a species don't have, may have once had, and should hastily re-learn. 

Walk catalogue

Before we left the South of France almost five years ago to come up to the Loire, I catalogued all our familiar dog walks. And here I am again - about to do the same as we move again. Only up the road fifteen minutes but the walks will suddenly all be different again. No doubt, we'll return from time to time and do some the favourite ones for nostalgia's sake, or not . . . maybe they will be just part of that particular chunk of time.

The walks are twice daily; usually not involving the car, unless the weather requires walking in a wood to escape heavier rain. A good source of exercise for us and dog, and time to think, compose stories/music, or just observe the local birds, seasonal changes, etc.

a few years back on the Vendemies walk.

These and the previous walks all have and had names. The Southern ones: The runny fields - where the dogs could really chase each other, run for long stretches, and be exhausted enough to flop to their respective sofas on returning to the house. Up top - a good half hour workout up a steep hillside just nearby. Up top - big: the long circuit with spectacular views and a vertiginous climb at the beginning, again from the door. Vendemies: a favourite walk which did involve a short drive up a small mountain and through a hamlet with the name - Vendemies. You might encounter Monsieur Oui, Oui, Oui, a delightful old guy who lived in the house on its own surrounded by vine fields. There's a whole post about him somewhere on this blog. Sand and Field: a local walk taking in a river walk, sand for Gala (now no longer with us) and across various fields. And several others, including more suburban ambles such as: The music houses walk.

The walks of around here are more pastoral, paths cutting through fields, views of distant lines of poplars, the further away woods and forest, and the cliffs on the other side of the Loire. 

Some favourite ones: The posh house walk - down the road circuit, taking in the posh house, chalky tracks, corn fields and virtually never any traffic. The dogs walk off lead on most of these walks (Or rather Bali does - we lost Gala a couple of years back). The posh house extension - longer walk involving more chalky paths passing through pasturelands. The Cow House walk: longish walk through woodland paths, past munching cows and horses, the ubiquitous tuffeau stone farmhouses, and eventually through the cow farm's land - not possible after a lot of rain as everything becomes pure mud. The Pumpkin field, more pasture land and a good place to nick a few discarded pumpkins/courgettes or whatever has been harvested that autumn. And, pictured below: the Moulin de Lécé - a walk featuring a hamlet which once had its own church, manor, and windmill; a great walk for imagining times before, the vestiges of life before cars, supermarket visits etc. on this walk we often encounter Jean Paul, my often mentioned hero of organic veg production, digging, weeding or preparing his produce for the next market. 

So, the next walks. These are to be discovered, although we have already tried a few out - long steep walks up and down from the Loire to our new house, walks through vine fields - pretty much as far as you wish to go, and walks into the town, past the chateau and with fascinating views across the river and distant woodlands. There will be a few car and foot walks but I think there will be enough just from the door to satisfy dog and ourselves.

A worm-karma day

We all have our little foibles . . . one of mine is to pick up earth worms when they are on a mission to cross(very slowly) tarmac roads. I hate to see their squished little bodies as they have attempted - not sure why - to reach a different patch of muddy verge. There must be a reason? Perhaps the rain gives them a feeling of wild freedom; an easier way to cross without risk of drying up on their unknown-to-us plans of reaching the other side. 

I just consulted uncle Google about worm behaviours and bodily functions. According various research studies, worms do feel pain, have short term memories - obviously not about road crossing - and have five hearts in their relatively simple blood circuits. Maybe this is just one type of worm; I didn't get any further because as usual I got sidetracked by the increasingly mad questions . . . "What do worms not have?" Answer: "Arms and legs" . . . "Do they eat food?" "Yes. And they like moisture. If they don't have these things, they go somewhere else." Somewhere else. I see.

it was a worm-karma day yesterday; very dank, not actually raining but it had been. Suicidal worms were out in force, ambling - without arms and legs - across all roads I walked down - admittedly quiet roads, but several had already met their demise from the odd passing car or tractor. The dog stood patiently, writing notes in her head about my increasingly odd behaviour, while I found the right, flat stick. The rescue can be done with fingers but the wriggling body, presumably assuming it's about to be devoured by a crow or similar predator is tricky to pick up. On the walk, I rescued around twenty-five worms of various sizes, adding, hopefully to future happiness in life or next lives. On entering the house, I made tea, gave the dog a 'chewy stick' reward and sat for a minute or two thinking about how those worms would be happily burrowing around in the bit of field they had been heading towards - I always place them on the grass/mud that appears to be the chosen destination. Or, perhaps they were silently furious about being whisked away from a crossing the road-dare, or the pure excitement of wading around on a wet tarmac surface. New research study, anyone?

 

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My tree

I recently started reading a book given to me at Christmas named, 'Être un Chêne' - to be an oak tree. The author talks about having one's own tree, in his case an incredibly ancient oak tree. Having a tree to mean a special tree, a companion tree, a tree that you sit under, feel the bark, talk too, and perhaps hug, if no one else is about - or even if they are.

We are surrounded by trees in our garden. I like them all. I like all the trees that feature on our daily dog walks, but there's one in particular that I have homed in on as being particularly outstanding in its noblesse - an oak, perhaps two hundred years old, rather on its own standing at the edge of a large field with distant views of other oaks. Perhaps that's why I notice it so much. I rather feel it should be with others of its kind which it probably was before many of the hedges and trees were ripped up/chopped down by zealous farmers wishing to gain a couple more meters of sunlight - something they may slowly be understanding is not such a great idea as the summer heat increases each year... 

Hugging the oak is tricky as a ditch separates walkers from the field but I always stop and admire the tree's shape, observe the sparrows and tits hopping around its structure and perhaps have a word about the weather, state of the world, etc. How interesting it would be to be able to see what changes to the landscape the oak would have witnessed over the passing decades.

I have yet to photograph my tree with its new spring foliage, heavier summer canopy and lastly its yellow and brown phase but here it is in midwinter, and on a milder day when the snakehead fritillaries are just starting to emerge - one of the early signs of spring in our region of France.

Christmas 2022

On the afternoon dog walk yesterday Ezra said, 'you always say that' as I noted that the festive day had been so far possibly the best ever. How nice to think that generally all of the Christmas days had been 'the best'. Scanning the years I can only actually think of one that had been truly awful - for me anyway - which mostly featured staring at the interior of a blue washing up bowl during a bout of food poisoning while everyone else ate, drank and made, I assume, merry downstairs. 

My childhood Christmas days sometimes took place at another family's house where Mum was being employed as a temporary housekeeper - slightly strange as we stayed in a distant upstairs part of whichever house it was while the family festivities carried on downstairs. I can recall sneaking downstairs and peering in at a huge Christmas tree rather like an impoverished Dickensian character. The more usual ones were spent with relatives in Dorset, wonderful days full of endless present giving in their cosy thatched cottage, walks in the countryside, terrible 70s TV . . . 

                                                                 Christmas day 2022

Yesterday was pretty much perfect as a small family Christmas day: usual routines to start with, nut roast, wood fires, dog walks, marvellous presents, Mark's Christmas cake, chats with lovely family and friends, board game and finally, the Christmas film go-to for us, black and white 40s, Champagne Charlie. (Tommy Trinder)

Ezra's present of hand made wooly wrist warmers featuring the very famous (it's a family thing...) words, 'Hi, I'm Barry Scott'.

For all those I know, love and appreciate, I hope you all had a most warm, memorable and happy day. We raise a glass of (the one intake-of-breath festive indulgence we purchased) a local, prized bio crémant - to you all.

Happy Christmas 2022. 

                     Mark's Christmas cake featuring my mother's Inuit seal soapstone sculpture 

Postcards from a new - to us - patch of this Earth

 Having arrived at our new habitat (Loire Valley) in very late summer we've only so far seen our surroundings in in their Autumn and now deep Winter guise. The trees now in skeletal branch mode are very beautiful but I'm looking forward to the first tinges of new leaf growth. Already, the tips of branches have now that particular 'next season' hue about them; a warmth of colour creeping across the countryside.

The coldest day so far

Summer swimming destination

One of the area's intact windmills with its rather eerie little wooden house that sits atop the stone mound which would have held the mechanical 'doings'

Late afternoon sun in our local wood

The deers drinking place - Bali drinking after chasing them...

Postcards from a new patch of the Earth

New to us anyway.

Yesterday's dog walks revealed baby deer (moved to fast to be photographed) pumpkins in abundance, poplar forests and quiet, leafy bike lanes to be explored - when I have a decent bike...

Bali, our younger greyhound (above and below) has discovered the joy of lying about on warm grass as well as sofas, although the older lady, Gala, still prefers the latter.

Dogs and husband after a long dog walk

Today we explored the small towns immediately opposite our patch; two of which are classed as 'plus beaux villages de France. And they are: very beautiful, full of pretty streets, roses climbing the pale stone buildings and wine caves/boutiques. People we have met here so far have informed us that our side - Rive Droit, is where the peasants live, the the Rive Gauche is the haunt of the bourgeoise, and apparently it's always been like that. I am of firm peasant stock - gardeners and servants for the well-to-do, so the Right Side suits me well, but it was fascinating to nip over the river and suddenly be in Chelsea-by-the-Sea, or similar. We happened upon the excellent 'flea market' that is held in Montsoreau every other Sunday, along with an excellent food market. It was up-market brocante prices but not madly so, and we managed to buy a couple of things for the new abode without feeling guilty.

A bookseller at the brocante.

Free food: post number . . .?

I know I've blogged about this many times, but each late summer/early autumn it always amazes me as to how much stuff gets left to rot on trees/bushes around here.
I keep forgetting to take a collecting bag with me on walks - blackberries are in super abundance this year. These plums were stripped from a few trees just down the road, and no one else was interested apart from a few blackbirds. Next up, pears, occasionally apples, and then finally, pomegranates - the finest fruit and utterly ignored here.
Climate heating is definitely making its mark as these fruits are about a month ahead in their ripening time - the jam prep something I usually associate with bright but slightly nippy November days, not late September/early October . . .
Dog walk beckons, this time with fruit bag.

Christmas day walk

Up somewhere as high as possible . . . this is a good one. Up at Saint Salvayre above Alet les Bains where there is one house and a minuscule church. It seems to be becoming a small ritual each 25th December - a sit in the church, which is always open, and a think about what all the day's celebrations are founded on, then a long dog walk over the moor-like hills, chat about the year passed and year to come; and home for presents and nut roast.

Happy Christmas 2017 to any readers out there in Blog-Land.





Tiny church at St Salvayre

Just an average dog walk . . .

Or not.
I was rushing yesterday afternoon as Mark needed the car for a gig so I drove up to the back of our town to where the dogs can run about in the vines.
I was surprised to see, in my rear view mirror, a blue car with a flashing light. Shit - police . . . what have I done - (sharp intake of breath on remembering the state of our front tyres). They waved me over and I stopped, desperately hoping that no one had removed the vital 'Carte gris' from the glovebox.
For a small French town, (and, actually, out of the town up a small road where I'm sure no drug trading happens) they were surprisingly well-armed: large black, what looked like machine guns, not to mention batons, and small steel canisters, (tea?)
    "Bonjour, Madame - do you know why we have stopped you?"
    "Err . . . non, pas du tout - filthy car?"
    "You did in fact not stop at the stop sign."
    But I did . . . "That's very odd, officer as I always stop at that sign, it being very difficult to see down the hill, and that someone might be driving up . . .
    "You did not so much as turn your head."
    I did, and I have these special eyes that can swivel left and right - perhaps yours do not do this.
    "Well . . ."
    We will have to fine you."
    Merde alors - "How much?"
The scary older one, who looked a bit like the policeman in Terminator, walked back to the car while the very young one who was fiddling nervously with his gun, answered my question.
    "It will be either eighty-five euros and three points on your licence, or thirty-five."
    "Can I have the latter, then."
    He shrugged and gestured to the car full of steaming, bored dogs.
    "These are très jolie, quel race de chien?"
    We talked about Spanish hunting dogs, dogs with three legs (after he noticed the runty one)
    "Mais . . . il n'a que trois pattes!"
    "Yes, he lost one in a police confrontation."(Not really).
The terminator gendarme re-appeared and informed me that I was to have a telling off and the smaller fine.
    "I will not give you the ignoring-a-stop-sign fine, but the one for ignoring signalisation - thirty-five euros."
    I was puzzled by this - if he meant indication then nearly all French drivers would be receiving thirty-five euro fines about every ten minutes as signalling is an extremely rare event.
    ". . . merci, monsieur - c'est bien gentil."
They got back into their car and I got into mine sighing deeply, but with some relief as they hadn't noticed the tyres.

                                

I drove to the usual spot, walked the dogs, got them back in, panicking a tad as I was late for Mark, and  . . . reversed into a ditch - revved a lot and managed to dig the car in deeper until I was sitting at an angle that made it difficult to open the door.
A man appeared, sucked in his teeth a lot and walked off. I called the 'assistance' and listened to Vivaldi while most of the psychiatric day centre patients came out from the building opposite and suggested interesting things I might do to move the car.
I got through to 'grunt' (assistance) and described where I was, although I couldn't remember the word for ditch, so I said hole. He informed me that if I was in or on gravel rather than the road I would not be covered.
While I was wondering how to respond a man appeared in a beaten Visa van.
He leapt out grinning and said it would be no problem to haul the car out. After hacking back about a foot of the bank, working out where the towing hooks were (me- sadly ignorant) and making several attempts during which quite a few other people had arrived to add handy hints on car moving, he did manage to drag the car out of the fossé (did recall word later on . . . ) with help from Mark and some of the residents of the psychiatric hospital pushing at the back.

Back to the present time - there's a cake cooling in the kitchen which I'm about to take to the man with the van as a small thank you even though he insisted with the biggest smile that he didn't want anything - "A pleasure".
If the world had more people like this . . .



              Here, do something with this bread roll 

Diets don't work

They just don't. There, said it.
I was watching Telematin this morning, while attempting to go through my morning exercise routine and encouraging The Boy to do the same, when a really stupid ad came on for slimming cereal, then another for a species of cream that you smear on your legs to reduce flab, and then yet another for pills that you can take to 'burn off' the fat.
It's all such utter crap. Whatever the latest study has revealed, we are meant to move about a lot and not eat too many buns: that's it!
The slimming industry is a fiendishly lucrative one whether it be pills, meal replacement drinks or Martini flavoured breakfast cereal, and can also be dangerous . . . a friend of ours actually had to go into hospital as she had been imbibing a series of flab-annihilating potions in order to slim manically for a wedding. She was dangerously de-hydrated and almost lost a kidney. She did look a little thinner after a couple of weeks of hefty antibotics and throwing up a lot.
I have vague recollections of going with my mum to 'weight-watchers' in the 1970s. Held in a hall somewhere in Muswell Hill, the faithful would congregate and be in turn weighed and talked to about how many calories they had found or lost during the week. Mum did reach her target weight and was awarded a special brooch commemorating the event. She then sallied forth into the world of buns once more and put it all back on again.
You have to want, really want to do it, actually change the way you eat and exercise. Fad diets - Eating grapes and spinach for a week or gorging on flash-fried veal won't do it; boredom will soon set in and cake-lust with it.
It takes time too. I always find after winter, when I emerge blinking into the daylight, that to shed the desire to stoke up on bread and butter pudding or Mark's wicked cakes is almost impossible, but over a few weeks and a few hazardous checks in the mirror, something clicks and the want to feel/look better takes over - sometimes.
This year has been better; it took a few months but I'm back to what I weighed last summer, and I want to loose the wobbly thigh stuff, so onward and forward; I may fail when the chill sets in again, but I hope not.
So, the moving about stuff . . . cycling, swimming, walking, yoga, housework, taking the stairs, gardening, sex, whatever; it all helps, and more so if you have a routine that you can stick to so that if you collapse into a Death by Chocolate and three brandy & Babychams of an evening, you can burn some of it off again the next day, rather than: 'Shit, oh well, I might as well go for the kebab and chips this lunchtime.'

That's one of the keys points for me: have treats. If you don't allow cake or puddings sometimes, they become huge, quivering unobtainable yearned for-objects that will torment every waking moment of your life until you finally crack and eat a tub of Raspberry-ripple-choc-chip-fat bastards-delight on your own by the light of the open fridge at 3am.
The opposing views on what makes flab is interesting. I went to Slimming world with my cousins recently as I was staying with them. The main theme seems to be eat as much fruit, bread, pasta, etc, as you like but hold a cross up to any sort of fat and back away from it screaming. Other diets say eat as much fat as you want but purge the evils of bread, rice, cake and starch generally. Confusing . . .
Everyone is different and everyone burns stuff off at different speeds. Mark is tall and thin and could eat cake all day and nothing would happen. He can still fit into trousers from 1975. I think he worries it all off. I can just smell cake and the calories leave the oven, absorbing themselves surreptitioulsy into my thigh-flab. I get worried too but somehow it multiplies the fat cells.

Anyway, for anyone who is interested, this is the Hot-house regime.

At least half an hour of exercises first thing: a combination of stretching, yoga type stuff, crunches, lunges, etc; all easy to find on the internet - we had a lovely lady, bed and breakfast guest staying recently who showed us another load of exercises with weights - so useful, and these have been added in.
There is no excuse not to do this. If we have to be out of the door at 7.00am we do the routine at 6.00am. It's so ingrained now that I feel really unhealthy now if I miss a day.

Dog walk - if you have one, or cat/gerbil/on own; preferably up an incline of some sort.

Breakfast: eat whatever you want within reason, a whole lemon meringe pie, maybe not, but have the toast and butter not some vile '**** I can't believe it's not cow-substance, thing. Breakfast, as my Aunty Olive always said, IS important.

A good lunch, but maybe on a smaller plate than you might have usually; eat slowly, and don't stare at the computer/eat while driving with one hand on the wheel at the same time.

Another walk somewhere/bike ride/swimming session, etc.

Small supper, and if possible don't fall into the snack trap (this is my big challenge) crisps, chocolate, cheese, in the evening when watching TV/reading, whatever.
Salad is good for this: make a massive bowl of lettuce, other veg, nuts, fruit etc. It takes time to eat and the desire to nibble is overcome -  plus you sleep well if Beatrix Potter was right about lettuce being soporific.

Cut down on the booze. It's always easy to forget how much sugar is in wine, beer etc, not being as visual as say a cream-laden chocolate eclair, but it certainly is there - 120 calories in a small glass of red.

The main thing is to change everything a bit, not just latch onto a new diet. It feels good to notice a reflection that looks a bit more muscly and a little less 'puckered', and it feels good to have a few less aches from carrying the extra few kilos about. Kilo = bag of sugar . . . quite heavy.

Well, some ideas from the totally non-perfect but a wee bit more toned-up members of the Hot-house.

Time for some toast I think . . .

Satanic Christmas cake decoration.

Or, small runty dog up to his armpits in snow.

Fabulous walk above Limoux today: the snow outlining the contours of the hills, the distant mountain peaks steely and sharp against the last sun rays. Even the tile factory was majestic, a huge white battle ship surrounded by broken chips of ice floats.

Home — fire still in, Spanish cakes and tea, very tired dogs.