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.
