Le Jardin Insolite

Last year during lockdown we sold up in the South of France and headed to an unknown-to-us region of France, the Loire Valley. After two viewings and a 'YES- we'll have it', the house, garden and immediate area were also unknown to us. Such was the coup de coeur, or literally, blow to the heart; in English . . .? Mm, love at first sight?

As we are planning to set up a gîte and jardin du thé a name had to be found. After a few 'err, what about this', sessions, Mark suggested Le Jardin Insolite which is in fact perfect. Insolite is a difficult word to translate: curious, unique, quirky, unusual, veering towards weird and even eerie and downright odd. Anna, the previous owner and master architect of the garden, created from a field - starring not a single tree - a verdant paradise crammed with roses and herbaceous borders that even Capability Brown might have nodded at and said, yeah, not bad, or something more akin to mid 1700s speak. 

So, the insolite part . . . we will over time add to the garden: bizarre sculptures by Leonora Carrington (I wish) and home made little cabins, groovy chicken houses etc, but for the meantime it's a verdant paradise with the occasional TJV/freight train passing at grand vitesse just past our boundary, AND, sadly, a bunch of bored dogs who bark and howl at intervals thus crushing somewhat the lazy, contemplation as one wanders, admiring Anna's, and our, work. We've got used to it now and they (the dogs) do respond to the odd shout, and we get on with the neighbours - and that, especially in a rural community, is valuable to say the least.

I recall that particular amble around the garden on the first viewing; a hot, mid-summer day; the buzzing of insects, the peaceful sound of the little river that runs through the property, the scent of roses, and then the roar of a train on its straight run from Tours to Nantes passing by the line of ash trees that forms the land's delineation. The estate agent had eyed me carefully, no doubt gauging the reaction. It was a slight surprise but our last house had a railway line nearby so not out of the question - and it isn't something likely to appear even on the most honest of estate agents details: hectare of mature garden complete with minor earthquakes at irregular intervals. I like trains, but if it had been a busy road . . . it would have been a brief viewing. 

It's always a lot to take in on two viewings, especially a largish house with outbuildings and a lot of land but luckily we were both in agreement and knew our son (and dogs) would approve, so, here we are gradually tackling the larger house projects and tending the garden as much as possible. Watching a garden develop through the months is fascinating. Our old house was very different - starting with a baked wasteland and creating something verdant was a challenge but it worked, and luckily our buyers are keen gardeners too so I don't feel sad at leaving what we created there. 

The months here have been marked by leaves changing colour and falling, the spiky tree outlines of winter; the first strident forsythia blossom, daffodils, hundreds of different irises, japonica, and now the roses; waterfalls of pink, peach, yellow, red and white. Anna planted two hundred rosebushes and climbers and each day we are seeing new varieties blossoming. My favourite name so far: Rambling Rector. We have started to add a few things such as a pond (under construction) area in the back garden and various trees planted in the early winter but for now it still is very much the garden that Anna planned and planted. 

She has now moved to a house with enormous undeveloped garden about twenty minutes away and is bravely starting on the planning and planting of it. We wish her well, and thank her everyday for making this unique and insolite, bird and insect flower-filled Arcadia.

It's old . . .

Well-used words at car boot sales, no doubt all over the world, for justifying an exorbitant price tag.

In this case at our local 'vide-grenier' - (literally emptying one's attic) where Mark homed in - being a buyer and hoarder of just about any type of musical instrument - on a once-possibly noble Zither.

The guy swaggered nonchalantly over (think you can do this) and proceeded to point out the instrument's qualities. 

'It is old' 

Yes, it certainly is but not in a good way.

'It is in excellent condition - works perfectly.

No, it doesn't. The strings are untunable and someone appears to have poured a pot of white paint over it, scrubbed ineffectually and then added a rough line of black around the edge to complete its renovation.

Mark and I exchanged glances, trying to guess what the price might be. I suggested it might be worth purchasing it for a more experimental form of jazz - sort of thing where two people and a dog might be the audience. We agreed it would be worth relieving him of the object for about five euros, so he wouldn't have to repack it in the van. No one else within a radius of about a hundred KM would have bought it other than us. That was for sure.

"Vous voulez combien?" asked Mark.

The reply of thirty euros was somewhat surprising. We walked away after employing another useful car boot phrase - 'we'll have a quick look around and come back'.

What one of us should have said was, 'What? thirty euros for that? are you insane? But we are English, somewhat pathetic and perhaps didn't want to spoil his illusion that he did have indeed a very old and unusually-restored item on his stall. 

Sadly, it will probably end up at the tip at the end of the Vide Grenier season when it could have featured in some weird and inventive art music piece. 

 

Dog-sub-blog. Dog Number 1

Well, I had to sort one somewhen, along with the buildings sub-blog, and the one about French roundabouts - yet to be started.
I mean dog-blog in an Elliot Erwitt fashion, not a straightforward admiration of dog-kind. Not that they don't need to be admired.

  Wonderful E E image taken I think in the forties.

So many years have passed and so many dog snaps not taken. So here's the first. Not particularly unusual but I love the obviously strong bond between owner and pet.

Life stages 2 - following last post

'Funny thing, life' . . . a phrase Mark and I say to each other at least three times a year when considering an landmark event/family issue or general 'what is it all about' moment when looking at stars, etc, etc.
These last few days have been the most 'funny thing, life' bit of time I can recall. Son is now installed in his tiny but welcoming flat in Bordeaux and everything for all of us has changed. That last half an hour before we went our own ways - me to drive back, him to walk to art school - was as distinct and hyper-memorable as the half an hour driving to Birmingham maternity hospital knowing he was going to appear and everything would be different.
The moments ticked away while he played guitar and glanced out the window for his friend to turn the corner into the street, and I fussed about in the kitchenette like a distracted mother hen - a last bit of checking if he knew where the tea-towels were, and, 'don't forget to eat lentils', 'floss your teeth' 'clean the shower' . . .
    9.00 a.m came. We hugged. We left the flat: he to walk with friend to the school and me to sit in the car, part wondering if we had turned the ring off on the stove, part in shock at the fact that 'this was it'. As if ordered, the day was about as dreary and melancholic as could be. A grey drizzle flecked the car windscreen, water gathered and dribbled down the glass as I stared out at the street, uncomprehendingly. No tears, just a sort of shut-down feeling - the end of a nearly twenty year period of everything from changing nappies to packing his stuff away in his room. Bollocks, of course. I know it's not the end of anything, just a change, a readjustment, a different arrangement of our family arrangements. That's what I told myself as I drove off the wrong way and got totally lost in the outskirts of Bordeaux.

                                 

The drive back was not too bad - one or two friends said they howled a large portion of the way home. I took a different route from the motorway, visited a place we (son and I) had stayed in a few years ago. The same old café was there with same old dame cooking and serving. I ate an excellent 'pot au feu', wrote to the lad reminding him again of flossing, lentils, etc; had a stroll around and drove homewards.
This was the bit where it really struck me. On walking into the house (husband out) everything seemed exactly as usual, except it was all exactly un-normal with this massive portion of us missing. Yes, I did weep, hugged dogs and made tea, and when Mark returned it became gradually less tragic.

The next day, lovely friends visited who had all experienced the same 'deconstruction' of the domestic everyday and assured me it would become easier, indeed easy within a couple of weeks or so.
I know they are right, and two days on, it is a little better - with jolts of sudden sadness overlying the general slight melancholia. I've re-done the bureau walls, hung new pictures of us all, and will, at some point, tidy up his room. I had shut the door on it as I see the interior on going to the bathroom, but I've opened it again so that it's still totally part of the house - drum kit, abandoned socks, books that he'd decided to leave.
So, what don't I miss? slight arguments over the use of the general computer, bit of fussing over some  foodstuffs - 'but, I don't like onion', and . . . yes, I miss everything else.
My iphone, eighty percent ignored up until now has suddenly taken on new mega-importance: sending texts, odd pics of the dogs, and a mobile possibility of a quick bit of communication at any point in the day if we are needed. Now I understand the importance of that phone call back to my mother from my own art school days. Standing in a freezing corridor waiting for the call box was perhaps a tedious way to spend twenty minutes but to her . . . no mobile phone, no texts, just hoping for a call to reassure, or a letter describing the week.

                                                 

Last dog walk for a little while

moments in life

I've recently come back from seeing my mum in the UK. She's been in a different home now for a year and is sliding each time I see her into a slightly foggier place, mentally. Luckily I am still me in her eyes and I dread the time where I might not be me but some other relative or friend . . .
It was a good visit: the weather was mostly kind so I could wheel her about around town and down by the river where we looked at herons and swans and talked about passing dogs and whether it was time to have a cup of tea yet.
The last day of my visit involved a trip to the coast by wheelchair taxi. It looked like it might rain and the taxi was half an hour late due to GPS directing the driver into some municipal car-park. I was beginning to fear the trip would be fated and stress-inducing with Mum querulously demanding I take her to the loo (utterly impossible) every five minutes and that the café would be shut, scones and tea just a mirage on the sand . . . BUT, it wasn't. It was one of life's perfect moments - sun, light warm breeze, distant clear views of loved land-marks; open tea-shop, scones, tea and a happy waiter called Victor.



On the way back to meet the taxi we were beguiled into 'buying' shells by a happy band of kids on the promenade, (much to their parents' embarrassment). I handed over 50p which sent them into raptures, and chose a large flat oyster-type shell, while Mum pointed out the more unusual one pictured on the left. She looked at it for some time while we waited for our cab and then announced that there was a small dog inside it. As she had said the home had given her wolf for lunch the day before I nodded and said 'really' as I wasn't sure what else to say.
Mum was never really a 'dog person' but in her own more misty world canine creatures seem to have become fascinating; a bit like when we are children I suppose.

Marking time

How often do we realise we are in The Now? In The Present Time. I suppose I register it a few times a day, maybe not always.
We humans are always busy thinking about what should be done, what might happen, what should have happened, what we didn't have time to accomplish; looking forward to something - holidays, Christmas (arg) life-marking events, weddings, a new car, a new dog . . . and so on, forever. But what of all the days that merge into a continual blur of time?
Within our own blur of days there are certain routines - very occasionally broken due to visits elsewhere or work, etc; routines that mark the days progression and bring me back to the Here and Now. Breakfast is probably the most resonant time: twenty minutes or so when at least two of us are at home, dogs waiting for crusts, smell of coffee, fried egg on toast . . . we probably talk about similar things to the day before - state of the world, which art college our son will be off to in September, the behaviour of the chickens already chorusing for scraps outside.
A calm and comforting time that I always wish to extend as much is possible - bit more hot milk, half a slice of toast . . .
It's the point when I wash up the old orange coffee pot ready for the following morning that I realise I'm in The Moment, and where I hopefully will be the following morning, rinsing the same pot and starting the day.



       Prized 70s coffee pot given to us by friends who knew we would love it

Keeping a light on in the soul

A beautifully enigmatic house that I might not have seen near Narbonne station if my son hadn't suggested going for a walk rather than shivering and lusting after chocolate in the vending machine while having to wait an hour for the connecting train

A very good friend of mine sent a post of her brother's blog to me yesterday, part of which was discussing the fact that in the 'olden days' - i.e before internet and even as far back as no phones, possibly even newspapers, people didn't really know much about anything beyond a few muddy fields/patch of desert/icy tundra, depending on where they happened to be on the planet and would go about their business, occasionally hearing something about the next village, or town, possibly city, possibly across seas - maybe once a year for somewhere so distant . . .
We now carry this weight of information about with us all the time, plus all our small domestic worries and fears, and perhaps it's really not too healthy. Anyway, if it is or it isn't this post is about taking a few minutes for the soul each day - leaving a constant homely light on, getting outside even if it's a total damp fog-out, to look at other things that we share this globe with: trees, birds, dogs, weeds - even a weed covered with morning drops of dew can be a startlingly beautiful thing in contrast to a picture of a ranting politician.

                            

                            Go outside and look at clouds - a wonderful and cost-free activity


Today, I did feel overloaded: one of those days where everything builds up into a vast mound of impossible-to-scale stuff.
I drove to collect water from our local source without remembering the drive there, and filled bottles while worrying about my ageing mother, my ageing God-mother, our ageing car, my, about to go to uni, son, where will he live? The hillside behind our house full of trees that all need cutting, the storyline I'm working on; why is it taking so long for the people who have my last book to decide what to do with it, the roofs that need clearing of moss, my aching legs, the computer that keeps announcing 'your start-up disc is full' the chimney that needs cleaning, the dogs that need expensive tic-preventative treatments, my husband who works too hard; whether we should update our wills, etc, etc . . . plus all the stuff I happened to have glanced at in The Guardian, and that tear-inducing film about ill-treated animals someone had loaded up on Facebook.
Two things stopped this mania: one: talking to another friend - who has an incredibly small amount of time to spare in her life - about artist activities, and the other, going for a walk in the rain with the dogs. I got wet feet and a wet head but felt revitalised on returning to the house. The trees on the slope suddenly seemed quite all right - I'll get round to cutting them in due course, the boy will be fine, mother will age more and she'll be fine in her warm, caring, care home, and everything else is really okay compared to most of the screaming headlines that I saw this morning, and perhaps might not look at tomorrow.

being connected

Do we sometimes forget the importance of being connected to reality, The Earth and just to ourselves?

I often 'forget' my phone when walking so that I can concentrate wholly on being 'in the elements' and being in THE moment without the umbilical cord of digital information. Yes, there can be inconveniences - like when I got stuck on a mountain a couple of years back and had 'forgotten' my phone. But actually it was fine and I met some friendly mountain inhabitants who kindly gave us (me, boy and dogs) pizza and towed us back down, which was probably far more interesting and possibly safer than waiting three hours or so for the insurance company to send out a rescue truck.
I was listening to a talk recently about the over use of phones/tablets, etc. The speaker suggested that we may be in danger of losing the capability and knowledge of how to be on our own - uncomfortable, restless; fingers twitching ready to scroll, jab, text, delete, like, and send visual information to anyone out there ready to receive our description of what we are doing, rather than just actually doing whatever it is and forming memories about it.
A most poignant example of this was a program I heard on Radio 4 where a professional balloonist was talking about the trips he organises and the behaviour of the people sharing the basket with him on each voyage. He said in nearly all cases people are so busy recording, photographing and sharing on social media, The Experience that they are not actually experiencing The Experience. Yes, they will be able to recall that moment on Facebook or Instagram but they won't have the actual, visceral memory in their heads.
It all has a place - social media, phones, computers, and it's all amazingly useful but perhaps not to the extent of forgetting our real connections.

Unknown stuff

While sitting in a café recently, I took out my laptop to do a bit of editing and noticed they advertised Wi-Fi free - being in French this actually means, free Wi-Fi, or weefee, with the accent. I thought I might as well check an email or two and logged on.
The list of surrounding weefees was extraordinary - about thirty different 'types' from Orange to Chez Felix or wherever it was that I was sitting. How can you escape all this, if you want to? Difficult. There is a man who lives in a village near us who has apparently spent thousands on 'Bacofoiling' his entire house and himself such is his angst, or perhaps very real fear/reactions to this peculiar air-born, invisible . . . thing.

                                        


Being a bit of a luddite myself I can understand the worry over something that has crept into our world insidiously and taken over our waking, and sleeping hours.
I still regard Microwaves with a certain amount of suspicion, and all phones with what I regard as a healthy disregard. Phone = useful device with which to contact or be contacted by people in a situation where information needs to be relayed: 'help, I have driven into a ditch,'  'can you remember to get more cat food,' and more importantly things such as: 'my neighbour's house appears to be on fire.' Most other yakking, checking how many Likes one has or playing Discontented Slugs, or other latest App drivel seems, to me anyway, a tad alien. Hm!
Anyway. WiFi. Mark, being an occasional insomniac like myself, read a report somewhere recently that suggested turning off the device at night was likely to promote better sleep - possibly common sense, but good to be reminded of such things, just as people need to be reminded that perhaps sleeping with their phones under their pillows might not be a good plan (arg! Why would you do that?)
So we did, turn it off, and . . . yes it could be total placebo BUT, I do sleep better - deeper, longer and with even more bizarre dreams than usual (a good thing, I think). I used to wake up at the slightest sound: a dog's collar jingling downstairs, a cat prowling over gravel outside, now - nothing.
It was as if I had been on standby not really OFF; ready to receive information streaming from our small white box downstairs: celebrity hair, Donald Trump's latest verbal gifts to the world, recipes, junk emails from Uncle Amazon; people inviting you to invest in their money-laundering ideas, tweets, reminders, Waitrose wine (how the F did I get onto their list?) gadgets, maps, reports . . . and so on.
The brain needs sleep: big, wide, profound sleep to repair itself and the body, and anything that can be done to assist this is of huge value - just a tiny switch- click-off; maybe it doesn't have any real effect but if one's mind can perceive it as an aid to total night time obliteration - great!
I read this morning about a Dutch study on growing cress placed next to wireless routers. One set of plants in a room with no routers, and another placed between two routers - result, the cress close to the radiation didn't grow . . . mm.
Anyway, just for saving energy alone, everything should be turned off that is normally on standby, and all chargers removed from plugs even when connected to devices; it all adds up to higher bills, general electricity waste and more stuff bombarding our already sore brains.
Goodbye, off to put this onto shutdown, not sleep.

Home

While driving towards HOME yesterday, although still in another country, I glazed in and out of a programme on Radio 4 with regard to what people term as home. It was interesting but as I was on the fourth traffic diversion, very tired and really quite lost - certainly as a human, not necessarily as On The Planet, (it was only Surrey, after all) I afforded it only my partial concentration.
Young people in California were earnestly talking about living in communal 'pods' - no curtains, no stuff, everyone logged in, charged up and information freely flowing about everything they had ever done, were doing and would be doing.
I suddenly felt very old; old and attached to my Home full of pictures and objects, dust, dogs and us - a place you can go and draw curtains, or clack back shutters and batten down for the evening. Less so in the summer of course when The Home is more for basic necessities like sleeping when the light finally slopes off for the night.
Maybe being young in California, there is no need of the shackles of cosy, your familiar book collection and favourite awful pyjamas; they may have never had to wait for a delayed train on a drizzly evening on Clapham Junction station platform, pining for tomato soup and the four walls called home.
A new style of living was talked of by several people on the programme - a life decluttered - wherever I hang my air-book case, that's my home; no need of stuff, everything on The Cloud; books, objects, photos, photos of things you once owned - gone.
I like stuff; not all of it - there will be another point where we precis down and hand on to Oxfam or the French equivalent, many, many black bags, but things that hold real memories seem valuable to me: the stuffed crocodile my mother bought me as we couldn't have a real one, things that we took on when Mark's parents died that had been treasured by them; their books, objects, instruments and photos.
There is nothing like a book of photographs as opposed to the endless screen-stored mass. Mark's sister recently gave him a beautifully made book of images gleaned from the family library of his father - a precious thing.
I'd like to make this blog into a book, just to have it a tangible object, everything encapsulated in paper and card, forever (whatever that is . . .) and then there's always the possible demise of The Web of course; the eventual point where the storage of seven g-zillion images of people grinning inanely in front of the Le Tour Eiffel becomes too much for the rugby-pitch-size storage units and it all suddenly implodes.

Wikipedia - The Digital Dark Age is a possible future situation where it will be difficult or impossible to read historical electronic documents and multimedia.

A few objects and books might become rather interesting then . . .

Anyway, I ramble - maybe one day we will see the beauty of No Things, decide to give it all away and occupy something tiny, such as an airstream caravan, but even then the caravan, roulotte or small shed would soon become full of dried flowers from walks, rocks of special significance, books, photos, dogs . . .

                                                 
     
                                                               dogs, books and instruments

Farming fashions

Recently in the UK (Dorset) I was interested, and rather happy, to see the return of the oblong hay bale, as appose to the round ones usually covered in plastic. Maybe it's just in that county? Or maybe a countrywide 'tendance'. There was always something comforting about the sight of hay stacked in wobbly towers across a clipped field; something I haven't seen in France for some time. Maybe it's straw, not hay stashed in the round ones? Might have to check this . . .
Anyway, while walking at Badbury Rings, a favourite Dorset landmark, and ancient hill fort, I saw this majestic hay ship sailing across a newly smoothed beige expanse, rather like something one might have constructed on Minecraft - a giant pixilated vessel (or a dog/sheep/cow, depending on how your visual imagination works) intent on entering the next land (field) to add more oblong pieces to itself.

cat-shaped space

Bronzino has been with us about fourteen years after someone said did we want a ginger tom kitten.
Good timing as our small runty cat, (Scrabs) had been stolen by someone passing by in a car, according to our neighbours of the time  - odd (and sad) as he really was runty.
We went to see Bronzino (who was living in a car at the time as the person had twenty or so cats in their house) and decided he would fit into our lives just fine.
And he did fit in; a perfect feline, really. Not too clingy, but happy to occupy a lap in front of the fire in winter. He caught mice, rats and rabbits, and, as if having listened to us, not too many birds.
He had his territory, would see off other cats, and would follow us (pack of assorted humans and dogs) down the road until his self-appointed patch ended and would yowl plaintively as if warning of dangers ahead to be encountered while visiting the bread shop, chemist or whatever.
I never had to take him to the vet and he was a good solid specimen of feline-ness until recent weeks when something happened internally and he shrunk into ultra old age causing Mark to finally take him to the for-mentioned place.
I will eradicate those final few weeks from my mind and think of him as the ginger king of the garden that he was.

Hello world

Having no internet for four days is odd - oddly calming, but also incredibly frustrating. Checking the weather and/or if there really was an Earl of Sandwich/what cooking oil is best at a high temperature and if dogs do in fact see in black and white, etc, etc, is suddenly challenging. What did we do before? remain ignorant or went to queue up at the library behind a load of other people asking for dog biology books, I suppose. I can't even really remember now . . .
Anyway. I can finally do a blog about our (me and son) trip to London. It was time he conquered his fear of flying and saw/heard/tasted amazing things, and was shown where I lived for the first thirteen years of my life - good old Muswell Hill, or at least an offshoot of it.
He was great and didn't yawn at all as I showed him 'the place where the bins used to be', the flat where I first saw a nude man (I couldn't totally explain this as I don't really remember the details other than I had gone there to feed someone's cat) the launderette I used to go to with a copy of the Beano and other nostalgic details.

My favourite shop - ever. Martyns in Muswell hill: still there; thank the lord of dried fruit and special tea.

A tree just outside the flat's gate that I was particularly fond of - a Holme Oak I think

We stayed in a brilliant little hotel called St Athans, just off Russell Square: cheap, friendly and with Old Furniture in the rooms, and still a fair bit of Georgian character about it.
Most of the time we walked - miles and miles and took buses; sitting at the front on the top deck, just like I used to do. I was amazed and so happy to see a re-introduction of the Route-master 'hop-on-and-off' style bus, without however the old warm fuggy smell and with rather more groovy seat upholstery.

We didn't eat in here. I can't imagine why people want to eat cold fish in an over-lit laboratory environment on a grey wet day.

But we did eat in here: Pellicci, on Bethnal Green Road. I wanted to show Ezra a real old Caf; sadly so many have gone now, but this is the real thing: great, warming food, cheery owners Formica tables and original 1920s fittings.

We ate wonderful food: Rasam soup (ow-ow-ow) as hot as I recalled from when I lived just off Goodge Street, at the Ragam; Turkish food, liver and onions at the above mentioned Caf in Bethnal Green Road and lots of crisps (the variety in the UK is boggling); visited art galleries, gawped at ridiculous stuff in Harrods (well, you have to go there once, and Ezra hadn't) looked at The Shard, but didn't go up it (high price tag as well as dizzying height of building) and wandered about The City wondering why so much construction seemed to be going on in this financial mess time - especially that weird edifice that looks like a early-learning centre mobile phone

The Ragam Indian restaurant: somewhere at the back of Goodge Street - I didn't recognise the road as most of it seemed to have morphed into new vast office blocks.

One of many building sites around the City. I like the way they number the floors in big blue letters so construction workers can remember which floor they left the bag of filler on.

And look at this! I just had to stand for minutes staring at the impossibility of this bit of machinery. Like something out of Batman, this giant screw/digger thing (one of many, I suppose) is the reason why so much of London's floor can be delved into at such a depth.

Possibly the highlight of the trip was seeing 'The curious incident of the dog in the nighttime' at the Gielgud theatre: stunningly complex lighting and sound; beautiful, moving, funny, AND, I got a badge as I was sitting in a prime number seat

So may odd things to look at on London pavements, like this Christmas tree netting device, running free after escaping from a Christmas goods lockup somewhere.

And so many windows to look in

And so many silly things to buy

Harrods Dog and Cat clothes display . . . we rather liked the pure silk coat for tiny runty dog back home, but at 180 quid . . . maybe not.

Better than the Tate: a lone and dangerous vegetable in Harrods Food Hall.

I can do this

but it's just  . . . I prefer not to, what with the dodgy hip and that weird shoulder ache, and then if I fell over . . . you know, who'd take the dogs out during the day . . . Shit! maybe next life.

Person in bed under blue and white duvet: "Oh, Christ, not that bloody tune again - look, just come back to bed and get lucky, or at least bring me some tea!"

cloud-dogs

I often spot them, amongst cloud-chickens, cloud-dragons, birds, angry people: cloud-just-about- everything. In fact I could spend quite a large percentage of my time lying on benches looking up at their ever-changing formations. Why not? It costs nowt and is calming to the mind.

Here is a long-necked poodle I noticed on a balmy evening recently.

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.

Napping

What is this weather?
I suppose an awful lot of people are saying this as they look out at horizontal rain, hail, and birds trying to build nests in trees bent over from gale-force winds.
We have a garden: I know this, but I haven't actually stepped foot in it for days. The thought of struggling rose heads and flattened lavender is too much. I have cleared the in-tray, investigated the top of the kitchen cupboard and cleaned out a cupboard, made phone calls and got round to jobs that are well at the bottom of any list I have ever written. We have also napped.

Here is our cat, Bronzino, king of napping, hugger of his own legs. The total bliss a cat radiates while asleep: you can prod him and he will stretch out purring, a smile on his face then curl up again into a fury snail shape.
Napping is only a speeded up version of hibernation. I know this as when coming out of a particularly good siesta, the sleep pulls you back: look out there, it's pissing down, the wind is knife-like, why would anyone go out there unless they had to? Why don't you just close your eyes again, pull the covers up, call out for another hot water bottle from anyone left in the house who is not already under the influence of warm sleep waves.
The best naps are after physical work outside: mowing someone's lawn, cutting wood, a long, vile, worthy walk in screaming wind. The fire must be lit so that one does not sink into depression at the thought of cover removal and stepping into a frigid room.
Take a dog: preferably a small hot water bottle-size, non-smelly one; lie on sofa, put dog in crook of knees or close to chest and drift off, preferably to the sounds of someone making a delicious cake for you when you wake up.
Almost there - into the sleep world . . . the wind is now howling; God it must be nasty out there . . . not on this sofa though, even though it's full of crumbs and cat hair; it must be the most comfortable place on this planet just now: me and dog on red sofa, in house, on tiny patch of earth in small French town, South of France, European land mass, world, universe . . .

I did like this one

I don't know who sends these, or where they come from. They just appear in my mail box - to share. So, I'm sharing this one.

Bugarach 17/12/12

There is no doubt that the mountain in question is an impressive and peculiar shape on our planet.
The approach from Toulouse gives, I think, the best view of it - rising out of the surrounding landscape like a vast Homburg hat, slightly misshapen by its giant owner mistakingly sitting on it. If Mr Spielberg was influenced by it for  'close encounters' I can see why.
I have walked/climbed up it, and down it, and got completely lost on the top of it in thick white fog. Yes, I saw weird lights and colours, but in my head due to an unprecedented amount of exercise, not from alien or spiritual presences.
Today, as we are only half an hour away, I thought I'd go and see what was actually going on up there.
I followed the twisting road up from Rennes les Bains, feeling slightly nervous, my mind full of images: thousands of pitched tents, the throb of djembe drums, smoke from a hundred massed vans selling nettle fritters and samosas. Or perhaps a vision of colour: exotic robes of red, orange and gold, lines of bowed praying figures, or stalls selling statuettes of the mountain, postcards and gifts: my aunt went to the end of the world and all I got was this lousy t-shirt.
Nope. Nothing.
I parked and did the tour of the village. One thing that struck me straight away was the abundance of fairly decrepit property for sale. If we were to believe certain articles, everything down to the last fetid shed would have been snapped up at a vastly inflated price. The bar was shut. Nobody in the streets. I did talk to a dog for a while.
The church was open, which is unusual these days. Most village churches are shut sadly, due to people nicking everything that's not nailed down. I wandered around, asked God what he thought about the end of the world and admired the exquisite light patterns on the powder blue walls as the occasional sunbeam broke through the rain clouds.
Out in the wet street again I came across Madame Avid, I think she said her name was; rather a good name I thought. She was cleaning her windows with over-manic energy for someone who was destined to have them covered in a film of space craft and rock dust in a few days time. Her husband appeared and we all talked for quite a long time on the subject of everything being blown to bits. "Rien va arrivé, rien du tout!" I agreed with her, nothing was going to happen. But we did have a great meeting of minds that the world is in a most appalling state and this is probably some sort of major wake up call.
As they had lived in Bugarach for about forty years, I asked them for their personal impressions of the mountain that towers above them: 'Definitely very special. It is a mountain on its head, the younger rock being at the bottom of it, magnetic - planes don't fly over it as their controls won't work.'
I thanked the couple, took a photo of them next to their gleaming windows and continued my walk around, instinctively ducking as two huge fighter jet-type planes shot over the mountain, presumably with no control for several moments.
Back on the main drag I saw an old man in a very new-looking blue anorak who refused to say hello to me, and another dog, slightly larger than the previous one.
Near the 'Marie' or town hall I finally found the action.
The mayor was walking about looking frightfully important with several firemen who were engaged in setting up a 'poste de secours' to rescue hapless folk on the day. This was great; a whole bunch of people appeared, well, four actually, with cameras and tripods. We all stood in the rain for a while the firemen shouted at each other and the kids looked on from the local school. I interviewed some of them.
"Do you believe in aliens?"
"YES, YES!!!!"
"Have any of you seen one yet?"
" Yes . . . me. I saw one this morning sitting on the school roof."
"What colour was it?"
"Blue."
"Do you think the spacecraft is really going to come on the 21st?"
"YES, YES!!"
"But what about Christmas then?"
Silence.
I said goodbye to the photographers I had met who had been staying in a tent since the 28th of November . . .? and went back to the car.
On the way I met two beautiful Chinese lady journalists who had come for the day . . . from China?! Why not stay for the whole event? We had a chat and then I watched them walking off in their dainty shoes trying to avoid the horse shit scattered liberally over the road, umbrellas straining against the gusts of wind whipping round the mountain.
So that was it. I didn't see the fifty bikers who allegedly passed through all in white robes, or anyone with a sign saying the end of the world was nigh. I drove around the base of the mountain and everything was as it always is up there. Trees, sheep, wind, birds. There was a faint grumbling sound; perhaps the wind carrying the sound of a tractor from a nearby field, or maybe the vessel concealed deep in the rock having a last run through - if that's the theory you are following.
'Break fluid levels OK? indicators all right? Yep. OK we're all set then.'