The French Renovation

I'm walking up the steep rock-pocked grass path between the barns, up towards cottage #2, and there it is again... A woody knocking sound, as though someone were suddenly standing up, their chair tumbling into the dresser. Each time this happens, I stare at the broken window of cottage #2, almost expecting to see movement in the depths of the dingy kitchen, but stillness and quiet resume.  There's something else I haven't mentioned. Just inside the top barn, to the left, there are stone steps going down into a partially-underground animal pen. Neither Kevin or I have ever climbed down there. When we peep, we can see scatterings of straw, a coil of wide girth rubber hose, and something propped up in the corner. It's about six feet long, and about a foot wide, wrapped in black plastic, puckered in where it's roped at two foot intervals. I know what you're thinking. So are we. But we won't go down there. Not yet. The family of thirteen who appeared the othe

Julia has a lake, a deep and ancient lake, and its location must remain a secret. It is home to some marvellous fish. We were the first to arrive there today. The tranquility was perfect. We were there to help Julia continue to clear the lakeside and tame the surrounding woodland. There's a large waxy black tree immersed in the lake, and we became oxen in an attempt to drag it out, but no amount of co-ordinated 1-2-3 heaving made much of a difference. Parts of it are lodged in the depths and won't budge! This is where it lies... for now. Julia rewarded our hard labour with a bit of a feast! Cheers! I was spellbound by the watery beauty of the reflections of the trees in the lake; one of these photos is upside down- can you see which one it is?   The end of a lovely day...

Work on the buildings is taking second place to maintenance of the grounds... and to Kevin's latest expedition into the culinary world. While I mounted the tractor for an uber-mow, he created a vat of courgette soup. Yes. And it tasted divine! He then produced a glorious paella, which we shared with Erwin, our neighbouring apprentice farmer, who just happened to pass by to say hello at precisely the same time that a family of thirteen appeared on our drive, apparently just curious to see our animal and crop-less farm. After being subjected to a dose of my terrible French, they left, and Erwin came in for coffee. We've developed our coffee-making skills, and the French are increasingly happy to drink it. We took pity on Erwin after hearing his ailing calf story and invited him to dinner. He  enjoyed the soup and paella. We made him play Skip-Bo. During our expeditions into the hinterland, we have noticed that many shops are selling great big space hopper-si

After five weeks in the UK helping our son renovate his new house near Dover, we returned yesterday to our French farm in the clouds. Autumn has unleashed a breathtaking landscape of ochre and crimson-tinged trees in our absence. We've shrugged off the 'quick quick' culture of the southern part of Britain, and are appreciating the peace and tranquility of the Correze, where roads are clear, the air is clean, and the sun shines. There had been one little niggle amidst our re-immersion into bliss; the knowledge that I would need to make a phone call in French to retrieve our Carte Grises for the French car and trailer. The niggle was promptly unniggled, as our local Bureau de Poste had left a slip in our post box to tell us that they had the two letters there. So, today, we ambled up the hill to retrieve them, putting us in a state of full possessive legality, car and trailer-wise in France! The woman at the Bureau de Poste was eager to help us; I don't think she gets man