A pair of boots, a pair of trousers, and fate

I'd nearly thrown out Mark's ancient walking boots but as I was about to hurl them to the dump pile we'd decided they might be useful . . . for something, so, they'd returned to the dark place under the stairs and I'd though no more about them.

A couple of months ago Mark had bought a pair of brown jeans from our favourite charity haunt without trying them on. They were just a little to large - waist wise, so I was about to put them in the bag for the next trip to afore-mentioned shop, but wondered if they might be useful, for something . . . so they remained in a drawer and I'd thought no more about them - until, our latest Workaway arrived almost a month ago. Christopher had noted on his profile that people call him the gentle giant, and he is, almost as tall as Mark - 6ft 6 - and just a little wider in the waist, his feet the same size 13!  As some of the work I had lined up was muddy garden/rock moving stuff and Christopher was traveling very light with no work boots or rough clothes the put-to-one-side garments suddenly had a purpose, as if they had been waiting for our visitor.

I've probably mentioned before on this blog that I think I do rather believe in fate. I'd approached Christopher on the Workaway website along with a few other people to come and work with us on various large garden and reconstruction projects. He'd declined at first saying he was looking further south, and I'd concentrated on trying to get one particular traveller to come and help as his profile looked perfect. After much chasing and stupidly long useless texts, etc, I realised it wasn't going to work and gave up, or perhaps decided to go with the flow a bit more, let the idea drop and see if anyone else approached me.

Then I had a response from Christopher saying he'd changed his mind about the south and would like to visit us. We had a brief chat and then a few days later I picked him up on a freezing morning at a motorway péage at 5:30 am. Fate obviously had stepped in, or maybe it was me just letting go a bit and stopping trying to make something happen. From the moment he'd reemerged from his room following a much needed sleep, it was clear we were not only all going to get on but he would very quickly become a member of the family.

We said goodbye to him this morning with great sadness but with the knowledge that we will certainly see him again, maybe often, maybe in his home country of Sicily, maybe here with his new family in France.

I must recommend Workaway. We've met some wonderful people through the site, moved forward with many projects but never quite as successfully as this time. The garden has in many parts been transformed, much wood has been cut, rubble cleared, a pond dug, a rustic BBQ made, walls pointed, a garden shelter made, the dog walked even more extensively; we have played rumba in the kitchen, been taught how to make Sicilian dishes, discussed world politics, history, literature, language, nature, environment, music, art, cooking . . . He has learned much too - that vegetarian food is actually really good! new music, life from perhaps a different perspective, improved his English, learned the names of plants, birds, and many other things. 

Happy travels, Christopher; good luck on your long hike, and I hope we see you again very soon. 

 

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.

The tea time sessions presents : Multi-Love

Direct from the teatime sessions sumptuous recording suite - the kitchen - Unknown Mortal Orchestra's masterful song, Multi love.

Nearing the end of a project

A building project that occupied much of our time over the last year. Fearful moments, wonderful moments, great satisfaction, and a collective feeling that we'd probably never want to do anything like this again...

Everything used has been hunted down at recycling places, charity shops, boot sales, online junk exchange, skips and the various local dumps, only the unavoidable basics bought - insulation, plaster board, the electrician and plumber skills/materials, etc.  

It's down to the small stuff now - unearthing the tile cutter to do the one skirting tile we were short of, a couple of curtains to finish, a bit of missed grout, a touch of repainting here and there; and a few bigger items, like pointing the exterior back wall and finishing off the courtyard BBQ area. 

Thanks to our our wonderful Workaway, Christopher, said BBQ area has emerged from a huge mound of earth and rocks at the back of the building which was once the bread oven - sadly neglected and allowed to collapse over time.

A few recent photos, and top one from what now seems a very, very long time ago...

before...

after

The original door knocker from the main house.

remains of the old bread oven - with tree growing out of it...

cleared away, and wall partially pointed 

new rustic BBQ made of reclaimed bits from our local charity emporium. 

Total cost: six euros

One man's rubbish . . .

Is another woman's gold. Or in this case, two, not at all valuable but highly serviceable objects that I narrowly stopped said man hurling into the 'tout venant' - general rubbish - at the tip/dechetterie/dump a couple of days ago.

I'd swerved the car to a Starsky and Hutch style halt as I'd seen an arc of unwanted glassware glinting in the afternoon sunshine headed for the afore-mentioned container, and ran up to the man to ask -as politely as possible - if he could stop throwing useable glasses away. He'd smiled benignly and said, too late. 

You'll want to keep the basket, I'd said, assuming he would want to keep a handmade, good nick whicker basket. 

He shrugged: Non - c'est pour le poubelle aussi . . . you want it? 

Yes.

And this old wooden box?

Indeed. The old wooden box was actually a purpose made and delightful carrying container for holding new plants to be planted out. I briefly peered at his car that was full of less interesting stuff.

Ah. Shame he said, noting my surreptitious glance, I have many more things like this which will come here.

Due elsewhere I stopped myself asking for his address and a RDV in order to trawl his house, and unloaded my car of real dump garbage - unusable bits of plasterboard, broken glass, damp cardboard etc and set off again wondering why he hadn't bothered to take the useable items to our not-far-away excellent emporium of second hand everything; or at least leave the things to one side for someone else to re-home. 

Judging by the employer at the place however anything that was left would be swiftly binned anyway, unlike at the dump I had tried to go to before getting my dates mixed up, where they positively encourage folk to re-house stuff and recycle absolutely everything from china, sinks, all different types of plastic, paint, furniture and of course, perfectly serviceable whicker baskets...

A perfect day

Not on a sun-drenched beach, exploring the hot springs of Iceland, or snow-boarding in the Alps. just a half hour journey up the road to meet my son at a half way point we use when meeting for a hike or exploration of the area.

Château le Vallière is relatively unremarkable apart from the scenic lake that sits below the town within a bowl of green hills. As this was an 'insolite' (quirky) wanderings day rather than a serious striding out walk we started by clambering up to the disused railway track - or rather, tracks, as there would have been two lines usefully connecting many of the small - now rather dead- villages and towns of the area - and walking quite a distance before skirting back into the town from a different direction.

As all the cafés I had pinpointed as possible quick lunch stops were inexplicably closed - restaurant strikes? (unlikely!) - a supermarket picnic sufficed which we enjoyed sitting on the disused and impressive old metal train bridge spanning the valley. 

Map banned, we strolled on, seeing where we would end up - with a rough knowledge of where the car had been left. The February sun shone brightly on impossibly green pastures, the white bulk of the local gravel factory and our three selves as we rather reluctantly made our ways back to the walk's starting point and the separate journeys home.

Thanks, the lad - great day.

    

Chega de Saudade - No More Blues

Live from the teatime sessions kitchen, our take on this bossa classic.

Enough of all that homesickness... the English version of the 1957 song, first recorded by the great Brazilian actress and singer, Elizete Cardosa. Music by Antönio Carlos Jobim.