Something rather nice above the wood shed

This year, due to possibly a vast deluge of rain for a day followed by rampantly-hot sun for about a week, all blossom seems to be more copious and flamboyant then I can ever recall.
This Banksia rose that started as a modest twig with about six leaves on it a few years back obviously has a plan of garden-domination and I'm happy to go along with it . . .

Controllers of the sun

In our small, runt-dogs mind, yes we are.
Satie barks for many reasons: guarding the house (!) food time, for needing a pee, and, at other dogs while out for a walk.
I realised this year (in the early summer) that he also barks when the sun goes behind a cloud. It's not just general frustration at suddenly being cold; he obviously thinks we can do something about it.
He looks accusingly at me through the glass of the front door as soon as the the brightness fades into ambient light, and barks continuously, until either the sun reappears, or I let him in again to the safety and warmth of the sofa.
I never really thought about dogs and their conception of the elements surrounding them. We know (some more than others) about clouds, sun, wind, and why we feel hot or cold; they presumably don't.
Cold or hungry means, woof, and hopefully an owner will do something to provide warmth and food.
A friend of mine used to have a dachshund that would lie in front of the fire until it was nearly roasted. It would then yelp until someone moved it, seemingly unable to equate, fire = equals I'm too hot - better move.
Luckily Satie is not that daft, but the 'sun/large heating system in the place above me', obviously remains a total mystery.
Here he is, about to emit an exasperated bark as the warmth fails again.

February 2

Why was I complaining in the last post? What a lovely month - yesterday and today, anyway.
After dim, freezing days the sun and shining countryside is extraordinary. Everyone seems happy. Even Ezra who professes to like drizzle and cold misty days, had to admit it is beautiful today.
Here is my favourite view above Limoux: olive field, pine trees and a little cabin which I believe is called 'quatre vents' (four winds) which I can imagine is very apt during a lot of the year.
                                     

I went out yesterday in the late afternoon sun and joined the 'goudils' prancing around the square. (Not me as the Queen or Green Man) Goudils meaning the people who dance behind the main Carnaval group of the day. It was packed: nuns with false breasts, cave men, monks clutching cheeky magazines, snowboarders, clowns and a group of chefs cavorting with leeks, dodgy pieces of horse meat (topical) and a huge soup pot on wheels. Leeks feature a lot in the carnaval, as do raw fish, presidential masks, dildos, false parts of bodies and as mentioned before, nuns and other ecclesiastical figures.

Oh really . . .

This is a bit much now.
We paid our tax fonciere, we ticked the box agreeing to pay for how much sun we required in 2010; it's just not honest.
I was eyeing up a hot water bottle this morning and thinking about returning to bed to slouch in fetid old pyjama-warmth, but  have managed to overcome this sad idea and am now making toast with lashings of butter while piddling around on the internet looking at pictures of Crete. Equally sad.
To do: cleaning, market, take Mother to look at art in dank (art trail event) buildings, make a fire, watch film, eat chocolate.
We did do a bit of the 'Trail' yesterday.
Garth's place was as inventive and beautiful as ever — nice tea and cake too, thanks Garth, and Sarah. I also liked friend Jamie's recycled wood sculptures that I nearly dashed to the floor in scary domino fashion.
I must recommend the 'Opus 09' red wine from Mr Berieu's (can't remember the spelling) cave just round the corner from Garth's — organic, dark and rich as crushed blackberries in a velvet box.
Also saw some excellent land photography in a little chapel — man trying to govern nature, the effects of weather on landscape etc, but it was SO cold that we were glad to remove ourselves back to Garth's tea room.
What has this picture of a glass bowl of water and vegetation got to do with anything I hear you say, or not if you have moved onto ebay by now.
It's a lovely concoction of elderflowers, orange, lemon and something else that I can't ask Mark about as he has gone to Avignon with Ezra to dance on the bridge in the drizzle. One of the very good things about this long spring, possibly the only thing, unless you like cooking snails, are the elder flowers - big as dinner plates with a glorious Victorian parlour smell: big bowl, water, oranges, lemons, sugar, and the other small ingredient, whatever it is; wait a day and bottle it.
Delicious.

Dites moi, pourquoi vous êtes venu dans cette region?

When people ask me this (why are you here?) I try to give an interesting answer about French culture, landscape, education etc, not the weather.
HOWEVER, we all know, (us who have moved away from the small grey rock) that the last thing mentioned does play a little tiny role in the choice to be here — only a little tiny element, bien sûr.
We didn't come here to relax in deck chairs, and making ends meet is still as difficult, or possibly more so, but the knowledge that warmth is starting and will probably continue till October at least is . . . if we allow ourselves to admit it, fundamental.
Breakfast on the terrace, darling?

What a difference some sun makes . . . just twenty-four little hours

Same planet, same time of day as yesterday's film, but with sun, shadows, and air like a toothpaste ad: fantastic!