The French Renovation

I spent four solid hours mowing today. I think I must have mowed about three acres. I'd been trying to avoid mowing for a while as my thumbs had gone numb for several days after the previous major mow. The lawnmover is gorgeous, but she's a vibratey one, to be sure. Turns out that major mowing is an excellent way to find Kevin's lost golf balls. I retrieved six this time, then another ten from the lower field, ones I spotted while mowing the upper field. There are always interesting little things to discover, apart from golf balls, while mowing, for example: tiny little orchid-like wildflowers, buttercup-coloured butterflies, mounds of cherry/berry poo from goodness knows what, burrows, more poo, exotic fragrances of mown wild mint and other herbs. I used a tank and a half of petrol. I carefully kept my thumbs off the handle, so I can still feel them this evening. No, that's not true... my left thumb is simply no more numb than it has come to be. 'White thumb',

Polly came back from her early morning stake out with boggly eyes and a bushy tail. She then came and sat inside the rear window of the caravan, trembling. What had given her such a shock? Another wasp sting? No. Something she had never seen before... a horse! On the top field. It was a bit of a sorry looking horse, with a back so curved, that it looked like a saddle had been implanted under her skin. I recognised her swishing tail. Through the trees near the entrance to our drive, you can always see the rear end of a horse, with a tail swishing. I thought it was a false horse bottom which acted as a warning signal to the landowners that someone was at the perimeter of their property. No, I actually did allow that thought to cross my mind. I know how to say 'Your horse is in my field' in French, and Kevin doesn't, so guess who went to tell the neighbour, the neighbour we haven't yet met? Kevin... because he is a social animal. He soon came back with a long-haired rock

At last, a reprieve from the heat and drought! I recently said to Kevin that I loved the sort of caravan day when it was pouring with rain and you could sit on the caravan's velour sofa reading a book, or doing crossword puzzles, and eating Malteesers all day. I have no actual experience of this, but I imagine that this would be idyllic.  Unfortunately, there is no rest for the wicked, and we soldiered on inside the house. The original beams have the strength of Jacob's cream crackers, so we are putting in a whole new raft of supporting beams around them. The original beams must stay, as we want to expose them! There is still a whiff of rat urine, but the smell of pine is gaining ground.   Even the clouds couldn't be bothered to get up today!   Yes, we know there is poor drainage! Darn hole! Don't worry- it doesn't actually look like that... Is the photo upside-down?

After nearly a month's wait, today we received a phone message from M. Bricolage. The strimmer (that we need desperately, that cost €300, that we'd used once for ten minutes, that went back to them within the week) was 'badly broken' and it was not covered by the five year warranty, as the problem was that we 'had not put oil in it'. They said it will cost more than €300 to repair, so is a 'write-off'. Kevin took our French neighbour, Alain, to the shop to sort it out. They came home with the broken strimmer, and that would appear to be that. Really? There is one major flaw! We DID indeed put the prescribed 2% oil in the petrol. So what do we do now? This is not over...  I think there is a misprint in the instruction manual. It says on a later page the ratio should be 1:30... but that's not 2%.  M. Bricolage, your customer service will need to improve dramatically. Not over.

A little hip piece of me gets sidetracked by cool graffiti. I know that's not right... or cool, but I do love this! Its 'beauty' is intensified by its 'frame' of under-bridge metally grids and corrugation. It's probably got some deeply subversive/offensive meaning, (I can't actually read it, but that'll be an anarchy A) and I might end up being drummed off my blog page. That might be a bit 'cool'.

The Hockeys encourage all and sundry to be hill billies...

Dear Martin Walker, Part of the reason I skydived into this French adventure was because of your lovely Bruno books. I'm currently reading the fourth in the series, Crowded Grave. I love the warm and colourful Perigord life you cleverly portray, and last week, I would have moaned at you for painting too rosy a picture, but do you know, suddenly, your country life tales are taking on flesh in the shape of so many charming and generous French people, and some English too, who are helping us to feel part of our new community. So, Martin Walker, you were right, and I'm looking forward to more truffles, more foie gras, more horse-riding, more fine wines, more rugby, more convivial doings with the mayor, more hunting, no, maybe not hunting, not yet. And we can leave the murder out too. Best wishes, Debbie PS. I also enjoyed and was inspired by Peter May's books starring the Scottish biologist, Enzo Macleod, but the murders in these books were rather more grisly and disturb

The weather's taken a turn for the worse, and the wind is becoming a bit of a problem in tent/caravan land... on top of a mountain. We had to tie the big tent to the car again last night, to stop it lifting off. The caravan shakes during the worst of it; I think it probably sounds worse that it is when you're in a wee caravan... We have to keep the flaps open on the mess tent. The olive oil container and the basil plant have been blown over so many times. Both are proving to be resilient. And it's cold. And I'm beginning to feel that Kevin and I are like the little old couple in When the Wind Blows*, naively getting on with our work, following the guidelines, and looking just a little bit more wrecked each day. And what with navigating asbestos, lead paint, toxic chemicals and rat urine every day, there is every chance of contamination. I keep catching Kevin without either his goggles or mask on, and we are sustaining a range of small injuries that break our skin, and t

Not far away from us is an ancient town called Argentat, right on the banks of the River Dordogne. The name comes from the Celtic 'argentoratum', the passage of the river. In the 17th and 18th century, Argentat enjoyed great prosperity as a result of the transport of wood along the Dordogne by traditional flat-bottomed 'gabares' to Bergerac, where it was used in the barrel-making industry. For wine, of course! This photo is of the nicer bridge, taken from the ugly bridge. The river is chockablock with reeds and weeds, but it's rather beautiful.   This is the view the other way, west, towards the actual Dordogne region.   The old town of Argentat.  Les canards, navigating the reeds/weeds. Unbelievably, many of the old houses have actual lumps of stone as roof tiles. and we thought our roof was a mess!   This plant reminded me of Capri...no, not the car.  A view of the ugly bridge from the nicer bridge.   We parked our car at the ch

Well, I thought it was three berth, but look what we discovered today! Bunks! I wondered what that white metally bit was! Sorted, Greg and Jess! :D

 Wire brushed the beams! Perhaps I should have taken off my watch first... Death comes to woodworm past, present and future! Sprayed all of the beams thoroughly with Martin's squirty pump.   Kevin finds a clean job to do... That stuff gets everywhere!