Life chapters

The last trip back to the UK was very different to the last thirty or so I've made in the last five years to see my mother in her nursing home.
Now it's a different home - modern, town-based with different benefits: familiar shops, tea rooms, Oxfam and a river walk as oppose to a rambling, Lutyens-style house surrounded by towering beeches and oaks; mossy lanes and . . . well, that was the problem, there really was only one mossy lane walk and we did it (with wheelchair) about 7,000 times (or so). The home is a lovely place, and she had a lovely room, but once you were there - you were there, often staring out at the rain and discussing where socks go to to after being introduced into one of the home's cavernous washing machines.
When I had visited Mum in the new place, I felt the need to go back and say hello, and thanks, to all the staff I had got to know over the years in the old home, after all I probably spent about three months of my life there - one of those sums I occasionally muse over - how many weeks or months of life are spent queuing in a post office, or how many days actually imbibing tea . . .
Having no hire car (another advantage of the new place - get-atable on P. Transport) I decided to bus as far as possible and then walk the few miles that are only reachable by car, or horse.
Oh . . . this should always be done! Like any route that is hyper-familiar - to get out of the car and do it on foot is to observe the previously un-observed details of that path taken so many times and never really considered; especially a route so layered with emotion - sadness, guilt, relief or happiness depending on the particular visit . . .

                                          
                                       
                         

                         

                                              

                                              Acer planted at the old home for Mum's birthday

Our day out in Castelnaudary 2

Ezra Loves this town. Sometimes, (it has to be a gloomy drizzly sort of day) he says in a wistful way, 'Can we visit Castelnaudary?' and I say 'why'? knowing in fact why he has suggested it. If you are attracted to dismal looking factories and train tracks (as we seem to be) this is the place to go within easy reach of our own town. It has many classic representations of Southern French beauty: the canal, a fine church, towering plane trees, etc, but it's the factories we end up wandering around on a grey day.
So, we set off with camera (me) sketchbooks (him) money for a hot chocolate and warm socks.

Here are some snaps from the day's adventures, after which I went down with some sort of virus . . .

Hibernating hydrangeas.

We didn't see who lived here, but the sandy construction was about the size of a boiled sweet.

A lovely tap

Pierre's house?

 Canal du Midi

Ezra's favourite factory - something to do with grain. I stood for a long time and watched the pigeons flock from one end of the buildings to the other, with seemingly no reason to do so, but then what do I know about pigeons' raison d'être.

I don't usually like peach-coloured paint, but for some reason I found this rather classy 50s? building rather wonderful in its new coat - hypnotically so. I walked around for ages just looking at the way the light changed the tones from peach to warm sandy-yellow, before I realised that I was totally freezing, and we went to sit in Café St Francis (I think it was) where the hot chocolate was delicious.

The turning year.

First of November. Socks must be found. The fire has now been lit five times and the animals are seeking warmth communally.
Yesterday was a real 'Jack the Ripper' day, perfect for halloween, misty and dank. It reminded me of those early winter mornings in London, walking through Spitalfields market across to Wilkes Street to work, the ghosts lurking in dark doorways of the black-yellow bricked buildings.
Back to this corner of France. Actually, I've just been out for a dog walk and the sock idea has been discarded for the moment. A bright, glistening day, the sky washed to a perfect clarity by yesterday's rain. Pomegranates must be picked. We've done two batches and juiced another bowlful last night for a halloween soup evening. I had a sore throat yesterday, but two glassfuls of the ruby liquid seems to have seen off whatever it was.
So, writing and gardening today, now jobs have been done. Huge amounts of cutting back foliage, and a bit of in-bed writing. First book is now on its, possibly, fifteenth edit, second, written and waiting the first cut, third at rambling stage.
We traded soups last night, Ruth and Chris took the remainder of the pumpkin, and we have their courgette and mint.
Soup, jumpers, firewood, bonfires, two duvets, jam gap after pomegranate. Next jam - cherry around late may.

weather to be . . .

Off to the dribbly UK tomorrow leaving the boys to cope with ant invasions on top of all usual stuff. People have told me it is about 16 degrees where I am going. Difficult to imagine as I write this in gardening shorts and vest top with the dog panting like a traction engine next to me. However, I have packed a cardigan, no socks though. socks are banned after April whatever is going on.

A bientôt.

Oh, I do like to be beside the seaside

Well not any old seaside, but just anywhere on the stretch between Cadaques and Banyuls.
After a Girona airport drop off I took the opportunity to look at the infinite blue thing. Blue indeed it was, dashed with small angry waves thrown up by the strong wind we have all been a little tired of recently.
Such wild beauty that coastline: the vertiginous road winding around steep hills covered in wild lavender, cactus and umbrella pines; cove after cove, still quiet before the main influx of summer.
I stopped at a tiny inlet where, outside a solitary cafe, a family sat drinking 'mochitos' (not the kids) in their swim attire. I had removed my socks by then but was still rather in moth-eaten winter mode. It slightly reminded me of the time Mark and I went to Brazil in January. We arrived and were ushered to the beach by our hosts. I'm pretty sure I heard a low mass gasp from the miles of beautiful sun-oiled Brazilians as we revealed, reluctantly, our red/pink/white spotty sun-starved bodies.
This is a glass, or half, of rosé I was enjoying in Banyuls-sur mer. Gradually my winter-coping brain (checking the wood pile, making sure there is enough soup etc) is allowing those memories of summer pleasures to creep back. Swallows wheeling against the ever darkening azure sky, warm soft breeze; just to be able to sit outside and watch the world pass without feeling the need to get back under shelter.