BIG birthdays

I had one; yesterday. And it wasn't 21 . . . an odd day, overshadowed by a slightly desperate feeling that each minute should be enjoyed to the max, mainly brought on by the fact that I was . . . alone, albeit with dogs but they don't generally note human events, or if they do I haven't found a card anywhere yet. 

Mark was away on a concert tour - a hugely interesting one, and was planned sometime before, although I suspect my birthday might have slipped his mind at the time of planning - no blame here though. You go and enjoy yourself, don't mind me, etc. Sob. The son was also away, some hours Southwards and couldn't leave as the building of a special carpentry model was to be undertaken; the first real piece of work after several weeks of destroying plasterboard walls, shifting rubble and other non-woodworking activities. 

So, the day started with me muttering to myself that it was only a day, a human-contrived set of hours marking an utterly overlooked, minuscule event (not to my mother!) that occurred many years ago. I did the usual routines, opened cards and found the excellent present Mark had left concealed. People rang and were lovely and said things like, 'what have you got planned,' and 'is Mark taking you somewhere special,' etc, to which I had to admit that I hadn't planned anything further than hobbling around the garden and observing birds/clouds/plants etc. I say hobbling, as I was/am. As if to celebrate a new life-phase the sole of my left foot which had been slightly painful had decided to shift up a gear to very painful. My usual, leave it alone and it'll sort itself out, policy wasn't working. Hm. 

                                                            Morning hobbly wood walk

Driving would be ok, so I decided to make a trip to a fascinating sounding plant nursery about 40 mins away via a restaurant they recommended. Dog walk undertaken, but not to usual standard, I drove, got lost but enjoyed the route; ate organic beef Bolognese in excellent down to Earth, arty restaurant and arrived at the plant place. Well worth the trip; not yr average garden centre, a serious, plants-for-the region place with not a gnome or wind chime in site. (Plantagenate Plantes, near Saumur, Loire)

                               My idea of a perfect eatery - Le Puy à vins at Le Puy-Notre Dame.

I had a long chat with the owner who will come and investigate our plot and make suggestions, bought a restrained selection of flora and returned home to dogs keen to walk. Limped up the road and pushed them into a field where they ran off and ate unspeakable things as I couldn't run after them . . . did jobs, answered emails, and then went around to our charming neighbours for an 'apero' (not an ape, spell-check). An hour of chat, laughter and fizz sorted out any lingering, pathetic self pity and I returned to clear up the dump of a kitchen, hot bath, reading, phone calls with my absent family and watching an episode of Detectorists, a brilliant series of gentle/wry humour and human observation, if you haven't seen it.

                                          Is that... yes, it could be - three day old goat poo

This morning I am one day older and the day's list contains currently normal activities interspersed by larger bouts of foot-resting reading/writing, and no pressure to enjoy anything more than I usually do . . . The hazy gloom of a grey autumn day was illuminated by a beautiful bouquet of pink, mauve and white flowers, delivered by a man in a black van wearing a black mask, rather like a Milk Tray ad from the 70s. (Thank you Katherine).

Voyages into unfamiliar territory - hairdressing salons

Throughout my life on average I've probably visited a hairdresser once every three months, no, actually four, or even five... depending on where I was living, what kind friends were around who knew about hair-craft (hello Alvin) and cash-flow. It's not something I enjoy anyway - the overpowering mix of hair product smells, the music, whirring of dryers and of course the slight embarrassment of knowing whether to yak politely to the person assigned to create something wonderful from an unkempt mop such as mine, or not.

Very long time ago hair. around 1982?

There was one hairdresser I used to love going to see in Nottingham, Mark, I think, when I was a photographic stylist and had to look somewhat style-ish, or at least I felt I had to when dealing with art directors, photographers etc. His life was, or perhaps he invented it, but it was edge-of-seat entertaining at any rate, one of high drama; no 'thought about your holidays, then? with him, rather more listening open-mouthed and mentally scribbling it all down to be put into a future book I might write one day.

So, back to the present, or a few months back just before the UK lockdown. We were in London planning the book launch for Londonia from location, to food, junk shop china, music and . . . hair. 'Suppose I ought to have it done', I had reasoned with Mark (husband, not former hair arranger). 'We are in London, after all, not a small provincial French town where my last hair cut was. . . dull, too say the least.' He had nodded and vamoosed off to various music shops and museums while I approached an artistically sparse salon somewhere in Hackney where we were staying. 

The desk person had sagely regarded my hair without a word and called someone else from a back room. They both inspected my scraggy mane for some time and then the second one said they would do something wonderful with colour and that Sean would do the cut. I felt trapped, like in an awkward garage situation where a person says you need a flange number Z456DW and a galvanised tube compression toggle otherwise it will be impossible to drive more than three meters down the road. 'How much would it cost?' I asked trying not to look too pathetic. They calculated an amount which was terrifying but I thought, well, once in a lifetime, got to look confident, feel confident, book launch . . . etc. So agreed and an assistant did a colourant test to make sure my skin would also cope with this financial ordeal and I walked out wondering what had just happened.

Two days later, I went back to the salon having told Mark, roughly, what this event was going to cost and took my seat in the salon warily. There was no chat about holidays, whether it was my day off, or was I going to be doing a bit of shopping later just a breathy silence while the colourist created. It took about three hours... I read half a book about the history of Hampstead Heath, drank mint tea and wondered how long the next bit would take. Another three hours. Alex from Denmark (Sean was off) was indeed an artist, considering in microscopic depth every hair he was about to snip, moving silently as a panther, talking to himself just audibly. At last the finished result was unveiled and it was impressive: shades of subtle 'mink' pale mauve, pale blonde, and yes a cut of extreme greatness. 

Then I was invited to pay at the counter and nearly passed out. Okay, ready for this... 240 pounds. 240 POUNDS!! - mainly due to Alex being the master cutter and therefore more expensive than the previously suggested Sean. I resisted saying WHF or, but, but, but, etc and quietly paid, even left a tip such was my state of shock. Ok, Mark, there it is, revealed the true sum - never did tell him at the time...Spent two days justifying it: all the times I had cut my own hair, and the rest of the families, etc, and eventually got over it. Admittedly, the cut did last a long time as it was of such precision. 

The only picture I can find featuring the insanely expensive hair-do, and obviously I hadn't followed their care instructions...

So, after lockdown... I haven't ventured into another salon, partly because of the mask thing but probably due to a lingering fear of the final bill. I've retreated back into self hair defacing which is an interesting roulette, sometimes weirdly successful, sometimes hat-inducing. But for the moment, I'm rather happy with it, and have been for the last two months or so - plastic razor comb (the phrase would induce instant heart failure in most hair dressers), pair of scissors and a certain, who really cares attitude. Who does care when mostly I'm associating with two dogs, my husband who rarely comments on my appearance unless it's really bad (he hasn't done recently, so the hair must be reasonable), and people mostly on Skype where clarity of ones hair isn't overly visible anyway. Actually, someone on a zoom book interview recently said, oh, before you go, where d'you get your hair cut? I love it. 

Ha! Take that Hackney salon.

One month

It's four weeks to the day since we uprooted ourselves from the Aude in Southern France to re-root ourselves in the Loire valley. Normally, a month in the old life would have probably zipped past relatively un-noticed but four weeks in a new life, new place, new garden, neighbours, acquaintances, towns, weather, builders, accents, food, and so on has been a journey of exploration even down to the tiniest of details such as having one of those 'grindy' loos, finding a snake in the house and cooking on the most ancient of electric cookers, ever. 

Part of the new garden

It's odd how all the memories of the house we left behind are beginning to fade even just after a few weeks. Mark asked me yesterday, when we were planning kitchen ideas, if the other kitchen had a double or single sink. I had no idea. I must have stood at it a million times washing up and peeling veg but it was now just a white unclear object in my mind. I can still hear the certain creaks of cupboard doors, the crunch of gravel from the driveway or the sound of the piano being practiced in the back room but now the creaks are different, the gravel has mostly given way to silent padding over grass sounds, and the piano is more evident - now placed in the front room which is much better. A piano should be played and heard not sometimes visited at the back of the house. 

                                                          Late summer/early autumn

The days have passed with a certain pattern in place: dog walks, and they are good ones - long, pacing over fields, down empty roads, through woods; unpacking and organising our belongings, showing builders around, exploring a little - not too far yet as there has been too much to do; talking to new friends, and old friends on the phone; getting back into our respective work and getting to know our rather extensive patch of land and all the nature it contains. The bird population within its hedges is very healthy, helped by the previous owner's clever planting of insect-encouraging plants; I've so far seen two pairs of green woodpeckers, a lesser spotted woodpecker (I think) wrens, jays, a kingfisher, many different species of finch, tits, blackbirds, and other birds I must learn the names of - especially in French.

One of the very wonderful things about this area is the abundance of local, often organic, fruit and veg. Within a short bike ride /walk there are four places to choose from, our nearest being Jean-Paul's place, a few fields completely stuffed with the most incredible produce. Having got to know him a little, he kindly came to look at our place and work out the best place for veg-growing would be, etc. We had tea and his strawberries and learned more about the area, the changing climate, the markets he sells at and how to grow things successfully in a very sandy soil. 

This morning I went up and worked in his fields for the pleasure of learning something new and to glean a bit of info for the part of the book I'm currently writing. I was given the task of picking and making up bunches of coriander and parsley - much easier than last week's tough-on-the hands and skilful radish picking and bunching. I cycled back with a slightly complaining back and a gift of newly-picked carrots and herbs.

 

Small gestures to save the planet

Very small, but if we all stopped going to Ikea et al, a few million acres of forest could be saved and landfill seriously slowed down...

The area we have recently moved to is blessed with a fantastic Emmaüs (recycling center par excellence providing jobs, giving people with a small budget the ability to buy pretty much anything, and fighting against wastage.) France doesn't have many high street charity shops - in fact none that I've seen but most big towns have an Emmaüs and/or a similar organisation.

On this trip I arrived ten minutes early and queued with about twenty other people (all wearing masks and chatting happily about what they were looking for). The doors opened, we were welcomed graciously and shown the way in via the hand gel area. There must be about thirty people, paid and volunteering working in that one shop and everyone I came across was helpful and friendly. I shall be back, at least once a week!

So, the findings... a tall thin cupboard with two drawers which we have taken the doors off (to use in kitchen renovation) and used as the office storage place; a lovely old fish kettle to use as a bread bin ( baguettes fit in perfectly); a 60s boat-themed table for the printer, a 30s bed-side table for a bathroom cupboard, an ancient wooden trolley which must have been part of a child's pull-along toy for a TV stand, lots of jam kilner jars, and an unused wicker shopping basket, all for under forty euros. 

Yesterday we experienced once again the usefulness of Le Bon Coin - a site rather like Gumtree on which, again, you can find just about anything secondhand. I'd been scouring the site like a total addict (which I am) for a few days looking for an old dresser to put in our very old kitchen. After giving up on one which was owned by a particularly uninterested seller - never available for us to collect - I found a really unusual piece needing a bit of TLC but a very good price. We went to see it, said yes and the much more motivated seller said they would deliver it for us the next day. It is, as he said, VERY heavy, solid oak and hand carved by someone a very long time ago - I'm still trying to identify anything like it to hazard the age of it. They duly turned up and after a lot of struggling and sweating it's now happily installed in the kitchen as if it's always been there and always will be there, unlike something made of ply and plastic...

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.

Plastic ban

In our new (old) house we have been inspired to use even less plastic than before. We need a washing basket as the old one finally died before the move but I can't bring myself to buy another huge chunk of plastic with holes in it which will break within a few months. Yesterday while exploring the magnificent town of Chinon we came across an excellent Emmaüs (recycling emporium par excellence) and there were a whole stack of them, a euro each, but I'd run out of cash - will return. 

The cash was spent in the same place on cushions and a magnificent white tureen which has become the new dog food bowl - the old one went the same way as the washing basket. Why not have a mad china vessel that cost two euros in which to house ones dog repas? After all it does go rather well with this particular race of dog... 

Familiarity upload

It's happening. Little by little, the maps of our previous part of France being overlaid by new ones. I don't think the maps of before will ever be erased as nearly twenty years of being somewhere lays them deep, just as my knowledge of London is still ever-present if not a little suspended in the 80s and 90s.

Dogs are great for forcing exploration. I now know all the small roads, fields, rivers and paths within a couple of kilometres of the house. Not that I needed forcing but I might have put the walks off knowing there are still about 400 boxes to undo and masses of jobs to undergo. The house is now our home for sure, as I hoped it might become when we saw it on the first viewing. There's lots to do but most of it on the creative side (hopefully!) I've tracked down a couple of local craftspeople who will pass by to give their opinions. There are a few main repairs to do, like completing the little roofs that sit over the dormer windows - wonderfully named, Chien assis (sitting dog), and the dreaded Fosse Septique - septic tank, but I'm hopeful that we will be able to spend the money (scary large amount) on putting in a relatively newly -allowed system called phytoépuration which uses plants to filter the grey, and other, water and to be able to use the result in the garden rather than flushing it away somewhere.

Further afield from our small patch of the Earth there are exciting towns to explore such as Saumur, Angers, Tours and Chinon. I drove through the latter this morning after going to look at and subsequently purchase two sofas from Le Bon Coin - excellent online site for second hand anything and everything. I didn't stop in the town as it was market day and therefore nowhere to park but admired from a distance the very handsome buildings and the chateau crowning the tufa cliffs.

Back home - yes, I can say that now - we ate lentil stew in the garden, wrote lists and waited for the local electrician to turn up to look at moving the boiler. He didn't, not because he was one of those artisans who specialise in not turning up but as he couldn't locate the house - the previous owner did say it can be difficult to find . . . Later in the afternoon lovely new neighbours appeared with a bottle of Saumur fizz and we sat in the garden quaffing wine and eating cake Mark had made using the garden peaches and hedgerow blackberries. Stories were exchanged and very useful information given; how wonderful to come across open and friendly folk. Yep, familiarity upload well on the way to completion with loads more to explore and learn about this, and now, our, region.