So we got back from Barbados well rested and very happy that we had had a break from the garden, and looking forward to getting going again.   It did us a power of good.  At the same time we realized that we had in fact run out of money and pending us winning the Euromillions or (more likely) Deb getting a contract, all of the work we want to do is going to be down to us alone.

On that note, we found the (hitherto mystical) source of free compost, at a depot in the middle of nowhere about 15 minutes away.  We have got the hang of it now but the first few times we were discovering what to do – which is – 

drive yourself and your remorque onto the weigh bridge, and memorise what you weigh.  

Drive off the weigh bridge and down to the office where Madame will give you a ticket.  

Write your name and address on it and how much you weigh (the car that is not you personally) and then drive down to where there are mountain ranges of compost in various stages of decomposition, steaming away in huge concrete bays.  

There will be a man in an enormous digger truck who is taking great shovel loads of the stuff and dropping it all from a great height – presumably to mix it – or taking great shovel loads and moving it from one concrete bay to another.  They drive around very fast in those huge diggers it’s like being in the land of the giants. 

  Anyway one of you has to be wearing a high vis jacket (that is not me) and that person nips out and takes the cover off the remorque.   Without a word being said, the man in the huge digger truck will zoom off and pick up a load of compost that is deemed ‘ready’ and zoom over to where you are cowering slightly in the car and dump the whole load in one huge dust raising thunk into your remorque.   The person in the high vis jacket then dusts himself down, spades up the bits that have not landed directly in the remorque and then puts the cover back on.    Back to the weigh bridge, enter the number you now weigh and post the ticket into the letter box that is screwed into the side of weigh bridge. 

  Then you pootle off back round the narrow lanes with a laden remorque.    Spend several hours trying to back the bloody thing into the garden 

Xand then the joy of spading and barrowing it round the garden where your dog will find it irrestible and will dig it all back up again moving it from where you want it and spreading it in a thin layer where you don’t.

Still.  It’s free and good stuff.  So we are exploiting it ruthlessly.

To get to the beach’s toilet block with its outdoor ‘hose me down’ showers requires a slow trudge through the sand, past the two rows of deckchairs that lay behind yours that David had laid out neatly in the early hours that have now been shattered and swayed with the course of the sun or those that have remained untaken stand reseloutly pointing forward and awaiting tenancy.Past the dreadlock rasta, crocheted bonnet holding all but a few of those long locks to his head and past the low broken concrete plinth with its assemblage of yesterday’s bottles,cups and other beach momentos.

The locals sit on the chairs under the palms behind the lifeguards post, curled up with their phones or they’re standing around the improvised table, doms in hand, eyes glued to the run as they wait their turn – then hand up and crack the dominoe down – make the table ring with the sound of the heaviest dominoes in the world.

David’s there, limp on a sunbed in the shade, in his loose fit T and baggy shorts, talkin’ playin’ watchin’ .

Getting past the beach bars up the small step that’s now all but disappeared under the sand gives you a jolt when you find you’re on hard ground again then just follow the little path round and over the runoff ditch to the block.

‘Wash the sand of your feet’ is the first instruction, many fail this one, caught short in the heat and the infusion of beer, rum, coconut cocktails served in the shell and delivered to you, it can come as a surprise that pissing is still something that no one else can do on your behalf such that your time in the sun is maximised.

So we have left Ruch behind and come to Barbados for two weeks.  This is ‘our’ beach. 

Leaving Ruch means leaving behind Ceds with the lovely Janet and Phil (from Oregon, USA). So far he has rolled pretty much every day in something so disgusting he has had to be washed three times, chewed through Phil’s shoelace, stolen Phil’s glasses and fallen out with their dog, Piper.   Temporarily for the latter.
He seems very happy though.

It’s both a wonderful break from the garden and the physical exhaustion of the work we have been doing and, contrarily, has given head space for planning and a renewed sense of excitement.

Thus it was that I sat on the beach ordering seeds of chillis, tomatoes, courgettes, squash, runner beans, sweet corn, celery, carrots (on a tape, can’t wait to try) and aubergines.  I love January and February in the garden – sowing and planning. Those are the elements of gardening I enjoy more than any other

There was a hard frost last night, it silvered and made more beautiful everything in the garden while it was still in effect.    Then as the sun warmed, the ice melted and in some cases what was beautifully frosted became wet, blackened, rotten.   But for the couple of hours when there is light but no warmth it is wonderful.

Misremembering a path or exactly where you are in relation to the same can have consequences! In the past it has led to great explorers finding amazing things that weren’t lost, scientific breakthrough that has been apart of the world for millennia or like me this morning, coming to the realisation that the hill I’d just come down was an unnecessary addition to the walk and would have to be climbed at some point to get back to the coffee and warm kitchen! I may have mentioned this almost straight away but I’m not sure Debs really cottoned on to how that was going to affect her morning – which was badly.

‘We can take some positives’ I said as we yomped along, ‘this is the farthest you’ve come far a long time. Look at the wonderful view and how far you’ve come darling’.
‘You can really see the iron work on that derelict glass house now, can’t you’

None of this really met with the vociferous wonder and happiness that I’d hoped my comments would bring forth. There was a check of the iWatch for distance and time and some muted comments, eventually that died down to no comment and a march toward home followed by ‘ill not be making soup I can’t be arsed’.

Now, it’s not often that as I’m sitting in the kitchen I get a text from Debs in the bedroom, today is an exception. I am asked if the toasted sandwiches previously mentioned are on the go. ‘No’ says I ‘but they could be’. Suffice to say that I’m logging off now to make the toasties, and there you have it – consequences.

Ttfn

It’s a little known fact, even here in our small village that there is a shrine to Our lady of the forgotten drainage system, well there is. 
Of course I’m not sure that that’s really what she is but there’s the pool and a there’s the madonna in a glass case set into the stone, and on the shelf next to here a slightly forgotten, lonely looking half burnt candle.

We first came across her when labouring up a national walking route, I turned to look back and there she was, not shinning in the gloom alas but painted white in amongst the trees with the gentle sound of trickling water falling into the pool and the buzz of insects issuing from surrounding vegetation.
I take Mr C down the little path to the pond quite regularly but the candle still seems forgotten, and Cedders prefers to run around the pond like a dervish on speed – I wonder how long it is since that candle was lit? Still that’s why I went for ‘forgotten’.
Today it was quite slippery to get down to see her, it’s rained for two days and the leaves on the trees around her have mostly fallen, it’s quite beautiful really: the floor covered in reds and golds the continuing trickle of water and the mirror like surface of the top pool where the water gathers before its fall.
Cedders crashing through the undergrowth – still the whirl of the dervish.

I think maybe it is a place for contemplation, off the beaten track and half way down a hill. It’s quiet, it takes a little effort to go there and when you arrive you want to take that breather and look around and listen to the world around you, maybe even to yourself. Perhaps such things are always on a slightly lonely and forgotten path that takes an effort to find? Who knows.
Next time I’m there, with the dervish maybe I’ll take some matches.

Ttfn

There can be little more joy to be had in life than having breakfast whilst the digger turns up to dig out your sanitation ditch!

Having been musing over our Siberian hamster issue it was with consternation that the digger, tractor and trailer made their stately way up the Peyrat road. What joy we had when they actually stopped. In fact the celebrations turned into a veritable a party as the lemon curd was broken out for the toast and an awe struck silence descended.

It was a little like being cycled through the orgasmatron Mmmmmmmm.
However, sadly the happy rats of Ruch did not enjoy the experience as much as we did. M. Le Happy who had been running around even as the digger made its way up the road has failed to re-appear for a while.

Hey-ho

Imagine the scene.

A group of unconnected people gather by the side of some closed metal shutters, they eye each other. Some are well dressed, maybe they know something we don’t. There’s a stand off as each person avoids the eye of the other, the sun’s going down, zither music plays in the background to the black and white photography of a great French film.

Actually we’re stood by the very closed shutters of the auction house on the quai in Libourne. The action starts at 2pm but in typical French style the doors are not even open.

There’s a crunching and a grinding as a little late the shutters starts to ascend rather like a rusty choir of angels they bleat out there need of oil, but the chain pulls them open despite the wailing.

The benches are layed out and we make our way to the third row, our first mistake – what a couple of amateurs, from here we can’t we the professional jokers at the back, next time it’s armchairs to the rear.

At 14:15 we’re away to a stuttering start to find that the order in the catalogue has no reference at all to the order in which the items are going to be sold, it’s not random it’s French. We move on through the cabinets, the pens go for 360 it’s too rich for our blood, the large broken Chinese vase starts at 300 !

Then there’s the telephone bids, the auctioneer get his phone out and starts phoning people himself, they’re typing the catalogue in as they go, it’s not bad it’s French.

The crowd is restive throughout the telephone war as we take no part. The auctioneer calls for quiet and we crack on, slowly at times, tres vite at others. A lamp for a Euro (trust me you don’t want it). The chairs are up but they get to nearly 600, the jardiniere with the crack – another 600.

The skies are dark now and the big brown furniture is going cheap, it’s time to head for the door.

Shhh he might think we’re bidding

Start closing credits, play music.

For both of us retirement was longed and planned for but in the end came quickly and quite surprisingly,  and meant we had to move pronto from the uk to France.

A lot to process and let settle while at the same time we got a puppy (which we had also planned to do when we retired but maybe not 3 DAYS AFTER WE MOVED (what were we thinking?).   This is his nibs the day he arrived – thinking deeply about his new home.

John had never had a dog before so was not forewarned of the utter time consuming madness of looking after a puppy and I (who should have known better) knew it but had also forgotten.  Add to that a pile of boxes which resembles (still) the warehouse where they hid the Arc of the Covenant in ‘Raiders’, an overgrown field (I mean waist high brambles and ground elder), temperatures days after day in the 40’s, and visitors for a fortnight who were very welcome and helped us greatly both with their two dogs and helping tackle the field.    You can see that we might have bitten off a bit more than was masticable.

And then I was ill.   For about three months.  I won’t go into details but it meant I was operating at between 30 and 50% of normal in these trying circumstances. It’s hard enough being ill and I am doctor phobic never mind about doctors in France so I diagnosed and cured myself.   I had JUST got myself better and had about a week of feeling like I was going from 80 to 100% when on Saturday I was struck down again with a streaming cold.   Out of action again.

So I think we just have about survived the shifting of our life tectonic plates but we really need now to spend time enjoying ourselves

For the next couple of months I want to concentrate on US and making sure that we are ok and enjoying this absolutely gorgeous part of France.