Two years before the mast...

 15 November 2022

...which title has no particular relevance, but it HAS been two years since I posted on here, so that glancing connection will have to do, me hearties, aargh.

COVID. Hmm. Yes. Travel bans. Travel restrictions. No flights. Few flights. Expensive flights. Masks on, masks off. Vaccinations. More vaccinations. And then the rather dizzying official push to Get On With Life (also known as Ignore the Lurking Lurgy). It's been a time, and we've emerged, somewhat battle weary.

With no friendly visitations by much-missed friend C  - with his usual top-up of local goings on and gossip, bulletin of things needing attention, or not - to look forward to, we've had to rely on the erratic communication with local friend F (of Moulin Bleu) and neighbour L to keep us in the loop. And then there's our paysagiste, who never fails to send through invoices, though he miraculously seems to avoid being detected by our CCTV. Hmm. Even his before-and-after photos are suspiciously similar each time we manage to extract them from him by way of proof. We must have Far Enough Away Not to Be a Nuisance stamped on our foreheads (FEA on mine; NtBaN on G's). It's uncomfortable, I can tell you.

In a happier development, we have had the huge assistance of Frank and team, who have from time to time descended on the garden like army ants, and taken control of it. The pruning, weeding, munching side of it, that is, leaving Guillaume (and his Invisible Cloak) to keep the grass trimmed. It's been a not-inconsiderable expense, but willingly borne, given our temporary inability to visit and sort the garden out ourselves.

So, for our first visit to La Fromagerie in 3 years, we'd originally planned a month in the Autumn (October, maybe) but, for a number of reasons, found ourselves squeezing in a mini-trip slap bang in the middle of la canicule in August. Temps in the mid- to high thirties, day after day, that kind of thing, and night-time temps in the sticky high twenties. For the first time ever, we had engaged a cleaner to prepare for our arrival, and boy, was that a good idea. When she WhatsApp videoed us as she opened the front door, and the floor was covered - COVERED - in dead flies, we knew we'd be incredibly grateful for the luxury of a clean barn to welcome us. And we were right. The place was clean, the bed was made with fresh-smelling linen. It felt so welcoming, after our arduous journey.

We lucked out, this time, since we hired an electric car, which proved cheaper than petrol/diesel hire  and was a delight to drive. Charging was a doddle - we simply hooked it up, through the window, to the power point in the dépendance, and it charged up happily overnight. Range was a bit limited, but we weren't planning any side trips, so what did it matter? 

Needless to say, we spent pretty much all day, every day pruning, hacking, taming and rediscovering the garden beneath the jungle that had grown up around the barn, as in all good fairy tales. We deposited mounds and mounds of vego waste (carefully encased in huge Big Mat bags to preserve our very urban hire car) at the local déchetterie. When the heat became altogether too intense, late afternoon, G would repair to the cool interior of the barn to read and listen to music, leaving his ever-restless wife working outside, albeit at reduced pace. 

It wasn't all gardening gardening, though; we had the time and pleasure to meet up with friends F and I, B and W, R and R over lunch, tea, beer, etc, and we spent one very happy evening at St Robert with F and I, enjoying the reflected warmth of the sun-soaked stone (and cold aperitifs) in that extraordinarily pretty little village. A large tarte aux framboises made a brief appearance on my birthday (and naturally, national public holiday), and we enjoyed the simple delights of local produce gifts from our neighbour J-M: freshly dug potatoes, still-warm large tomatoes, grapes and plums.

The highlight of the visit was the long-anticipated visit by our dear Croatian friend, A, who, with his now-deceased wife Z, has been a staunch supporter of our folly from the get go, and now enjoys special lifetime visitation privileges. Friend A got stuck in and helped prune and drag vego and generally cheerlead, while managing to suppress his natural disappointment that his visit to rural France had somehow morphed into a Workaway gig. What a rare and precious gem he is.

Our pergola was groaning under the old vines that had grown hugely since our last visit. Other plants (glycine, more vines and chèvrefeuille), newly planted three years ago, had taken full advantage of their sunny aspect and the structure of the pergola uprights and were well underway. In fact, though the pergola was yet to be covered by the creepers - there was a gap in the centre - the afternoon heat on that stone porch was already much attenuated by the dappled shade, and the temperature inside the barn close to the French doors was palpably less than in previous years. Success! Grapes were abundant and so were wasps - c'est la vie dans la France profonde, hein?

Peace, perfect peace

J-M's bounty

The rogue glycine

Vine growth on the pergola

Perimeter plantings and sick noyer

Tarte aux framboises, anyone?

Romantic moments...

...and more

Glycine seed pods

Misty morning

Clearing makes things look a little bleak

Willing workers

Porch view

Arty shot by G

Pergola canopy progress shot

Another arty G shot...

...and another

The ultimate arty image of me training vines

Porch vine progress shot

This damaged pommier came down in the storm

G again

Rosemary before the savage pruning exercise

PS Happily, the last three years had seen great growth in G's prunier, C's cerisier, and the self-seeded  noyer sapling; sadly, however, the large noyer mothership was clearly failing. We've known for some years that it was becoming weary, hardly bothering to put out leaves until Summer was well under way. This year, the noyer was almost leafless in August, sending only gnarled branches skyward into the blue. It was with great sadness, therefore, that we decided to have the noyer cut down in mid-October, after our return to Aus. While on the property, the tree surgeon pruned the pommiers too, and he seems to think they are perhaps on their last legs too. Let's hope he's only a tree surgeon, and not a Tarot card reader too.

Clearly we will be planting trees next time we are over...

It's not always rude to point

 5 November 2020

Tom has now finished pointing the fourth and final barn wall, and it looks good! We are pleased as punch with it, and the now-smooth alleyway between the barn and cabane is an unexpected bonus.

It looks much lighter and, of course, now that it is 'done', it looks more loved. 

Loved...more loved...most loved...'barnacle' in France.

                        

Also, delicate negotiations have concluded that our gabions and new fence will have to wait, if we are to stay on friendly terms with J-M. He is hoping to buy the small area of land alongside the driveway, and has plans to carve out his own entranceway. This may or may not be to our advantage.

Watch this space. Nothing happens overnight in France.  

That was the year that was

 2 November 2020

Hmm.

The year since last we were at our beloved barn has been one of turmoil - a real rollercoaster ride - in one way or another.

We had the good stuff, don't get me wrong: daughter C married her L in Buenos Aires, and we (G and I, son C and girlfriend T) were fortunate enough to be there to celebrate with them and L's extended family. It was a joyous occasion and we left Argentina with happy hearts, and plans to catch up in the new year, in France, for G's big 60 birthday.

All well and good so far.

Then we had the summer of hell, here in Aus, with bushfires threatening and taking both homes and lives. The news was too much to bear. Our lives were never at risk, so we were counted among the lucky.

Then another uptick in February, with an idyllic week spent in Fiji. No complaints there. 

And THEN. The virus to beat all viruses. And we all know the one to which I'm referring. The feverish elephant in every room, the dominant topic in every conversation since early March.

Lockdown. Masks. Sanitise. Wash hands. And repeat. You know. All fine, if you're an introvert, or could work from home, or both.

Then there were the stats: the cases, the R number, the awful climbing numbers of deaths. 

In our little network, we suffered three deaths (none COVID related, though their funeral arrangements were affected): a childhood friend, M; G's mother; and recently, the sudden out-of-the-blue demise of our special, fellow barn enthusiast, C. 

C had visited La Fromagerie many times over the last few years, and had developed a passion for the delights to be found there. He had revelled in the country walks, the rampant growth of the garden, and had made some meaningful connections - even friendships - with some of the locals. He had thrown himself into life in Correze (en France profonde) with his customary enthusiasm. He bought eggs from one neighbour, talked earnest eco-agriculture with another; he gave a talk at Ayen on his speciality subject (les fourmis), and criss-crossed the backroads and paths around the barn on foot, or, on his last visit, by bicycle.

He would call us from the barn on arrival (sometimes to ask the key code again), full of information and ready to provide us with an up-to-the minute bulletin on the garden, the neighbours, the general goss. He was particularly interested in our wild meadows (les prés), our verger (les pommiers, le prunier, le pêcher, le figuier, les vignes), and the walnut tree (le noyer). The walnut tree was a favourite  - he would take a table and chair out there and - wifi still strong in the garden - would work in its generous shade. That's when he wasn't under the covered porch, or upstairs at the desk, moved near the French window to take advantage of the view over the valley. He was spoiled for choice, and would rue the fact that he made little impact on his work, being too busy walking and eating and living the good life.

We knew C loved the barn almost as much as we did, so having him there was second best to being there ourselves.  I think he felt a sense of ownership of the place - at least, it seemed like that to us - and offered opinions and suggestions (and, it has to be said, a list of must-dos) when he rang from the barn. He had been there to commission 'The Beast', as he named the pellet stove, and he was skeptical about our plans to erect the pergola, though he came around to it and was pleased with the result. Haha. Thanks for the tick of approval, C! 

C stayed for a couple of weeks at the barn in July, when Paris emerged from lockdown, and spent that time getting acquainted with the pleasures of gardening. He asked our permission to plant a cerisier, and a hydrangea (hortensia) - his first-ever experience of planting in the soil, having always been a balcony and window-box gardener. The car was its usual capricious self, so he bought Decathlon's last  bicycle and tackled the hill up to the supermarché for groceries. He had a frelon nest in the eaves of the porch removed, but, ever the entomologist, he kept the nest to dissect it and examine the (now safely dead) occupants.

C left his bicycle and some clothes at the barn, since he planned to return in late September. In the meantime, he had holidays in Switzerland and Scandinavia to distract him. When he returned to Paris, he said he'd enjoyed one of the best Summers ever, visiting old friends and exploring new places, walking, hiking, cycling...

He would never return to the barn. C died suddenly on 1 September, in Paris.

We will miss his presence there, but his cerisier will always be a reminder of the great soul who passed this way and shared his life with us.

In other news, our fence (the section between us and the cabane next door), was trashed late last year, and of course no-one 'fessed up. It took almost a year, and C's careful investigation, to discover that it was knocked down by J-M's son, while manoeuvring the tractor. No email, no message, no apology. Nada, nix, nothing. Just the remains of the fence left in an ugly mess. Apparently, J-M wants to re-erect the fence allowing easier access to the cabane. Not quite sure what that might look like, but from our CCTV footage, it is clear that they have already achieved the access they could previously only dream about: we can see them driving and parking said tractor and trailer in our driveway, in full view of the camera. Ironically, the damage to the fence was done while the camera was temporarily disabled...

Tom is over there at the moment, pointing the last of the four main barn walls - the one that overlooks the cabane. He is also tasked with placing a stone-filled gabion on each side of our gate (one post of which is now extinct; it has ceased to be), by way of asserting our ownership and our boundary. All done with the utmost diplomacy, naturally, as we do not want to fall out with J-M. But he needs to know we are serious about our place, and that we are not about to cede property to him, just because we are absent so much of the time.

Grr.

And so, on we go, jolting, then slowing to an almost halt before careening toward the end of this beleaguered year. No chance of visiting family, either domestically, or abroad, nor of them visiting us. No end to the virus and no vaccine in sight. It may be a year or more before we can return to France. Brexit is going to happen, come what may. Sigh. 

But - our little caboose now trundling upward on its rickety tracks - another ray of light and joy and positive focus has entered our lives - a granddaughter, born in faraway Argentina.  A perfect little creature with intense dark eyes and a slightly worried look. 

Don't fret, little one - it's a confusing world you've arrived in, but we will look after you to our last breath.