36) Some random updates

Not everything in the garden is a creepy crawly, we have some rather sweet and cuddly inhabitants as well.

And there seem to be lots and lots of Bambi's cousins all around us (not so great once we start growing vegetables).

After a prolonged hot spell, though, it often seems to end in a spectacular storm - and once again everything is fresh and green.

We have been cooking on a barbecue (exclusively) now for several weeks.  We like barbecues but they do take quite a time (this can be helpful when you have no TV).  We were given this camping stove by some friends and decided to make pasta for a change - difficult, if not impossible on a barbecue.

It actually turned out to be quite difficult on the camping gaz stove.  It may have been the size of the saucepan in relation to the stove.  It MAY have been that it was not on quite straight (those this was hotly disputed by the person concerned).  Most probably the bubbling of the water set up a slight movement which gently, gradually, ever so slowly jiggled the whole bloody lot off all over the wall.  Subsequent experiments seemed to support this theory.

Given the snails pace we are making progress with the artisans, we felt it was time to invest in a hob (or we would be doing barbecues well into the winter).  We found this two ring electric hob for 32 euros and we wondered why you had to pay as much as 1,000 for a four ring electric induction hob.  I then made what I think is a rather handsome kitchen unit out of a couple of old doors we found in the attic.  We then started to wonder if you really need to spend thousands of euros on kitchen units when old doors can work very passably well.

Having, made the unit we decided to invest in an oven (which we will need eventually in any case).  Oven shops in France have a strange way of doing business.

We had looked things up on line and found that the list price of what we wanted was almost double what the equivalent would have been in England.  However, you could get them for a lot less direct from the internet.  We did not really want to do this with an oven as it would be a hassle if anything went wrong (it's bad enough arguing in English with someone at a call centre in India, let alone trying to do it in French).  Instead we went armed with a run off of the cheapest deal we had found on the internet.  The first shop initially quoted the recommended (outrageous) price.  We showed them the ad' from the internet and, after realising they might miss a sale, they came down 20 per cent.  This still made it quite expensive so we went to another shop.  The same thing again.  First the ridiculous recommended price, then we brought out our trump card of the internet ad'.  Cool as a cucumber, the girl got out her calculator, fiddled about on it and then announced they could reduce the price by 38 per cent.  We agreed the sale and are now able to cook almost anything.

They are over in our garden now, but we had the most delicious plums for a couple of weeks and they are still in the markets - and very cheap
.

In the garden there is just one walnut tree, but it is quite a big one, and it is covered in walnuts.  The nice thing about walnuts is you don't have to risk life and limb climbing the tree.  They fall off naturally and don't get bruised or attacked by wasps.  We do, however, have a little red squirrel who seems to have cottoned onto this.  Each morning (usually before we are up) he comes along to see what has fallen over night, and off he goes with them to pile them up in a store for winter.  We need to get up earlier, risk climbing the tree, or find his/her store.

Melons we don't have in the garden, but they are all around us in the fields.  This particular area is apparently quite famous for melons, and I have certainly never eaten melons like these in England.  We were told by our friendly French estate agent that the best melons to be had in Cahors market come from a stall with a man who has certain similarities to a melon.  It didn't take long to find it, and he is (as always) absolutely right.

Although French bread can be wonderful, often it doesn't last.  We have found this stall at Cahors market (which rather helpfully happens on a Wednesday and a Saturday) where you can buy a Querbi.  Not only is it delicious, but it will be fine for the next day.  They also have all sorts of other tempting breads made with olives, onions. cheese. tomatoes and practically anything you can think of.

The other home produce we have is an abundance of quinces - all from just the one lone tree above, growing on not much more than bare chalk.

When the fruits first started to appear, we weren't sure what they were.  They are furry, shaped a bit like a lemon (but bigger), and very hard.  Having discovered what they were we needed to know what to do with them.  We knew we liked that stuff you sometimes get served alongside cheese (in discerning sorts of places), but we have never had much of it as it's so fiendishly expensive.

G's worked out a recipe and now we are living like Kings (ummm....).  It's called Membrillo (after some place in Spain), and I must say G's version is the best |I have ever tasted.  It has a kind of mysterious perfume to it and is like a little piece of heaven.

Talking of mysteries, something strange has been happening in our Salon.  On the walls there are the marks where pictures obviously hung for many years.  We have noticed of late that faded images have started to appear, and our room is becoming peopled by figures from the distant past, perhaps associated with the house in days gone by.  We think they are friendly.

35) Praying Mantis

I always thought it was a "Preying" Mantis, which sounds very sinister.  Actually, it turns out it is a "Praying" Mantis, which alters one's attitude to the little creature entirely.  A sort of monk like bug who may, indeed, be saying prayers for the benefit of the household.

It does, though, seem an extraordinary design and one wonders what kind of evolutionary advantage has been gained through the bizarre arrangement of its permanently genuflecting front legs.

34) Post script to hornets - les taupes

Along the side of our drive we noticed that there was a fairly plentiful outbreak of mole hills.  Not a complete disaster, but they weren't too good for the new mower I bought.  I mentioned them, somewhat rashly as it turned out, to our frienedly exterminator of hornets (asiatiques).  Needless to say he was also something of a world expert on moles (les taupes).  I assumed there were at least a dozen of the little buggers by the number of mole hills we had.  But how wrong I was.  Apparently they are very territorial and if they had been even two, they would fight (to the death was definitely implied).  Innocently, I asked if he knew what could be done.  He smiled.  When he came back to clear up the dead hornets (and I suspect get a reward in addition to the exorbitant fee he was charging), he said he would deal with it.

Three days later he roared up the drive in his white van, and duly collected the hornet's nest and its, now (thankfully) deceased, and thus no longer dangerous, inhabitants.

 This particular mole we had did seem to be a steroid injecting athlete of extraordinary strength and stamina.  Our ground is very chalky, almost solid rock, and yet this mole just carved through it like a jack hammer through a beach of sand.  Clearly it called for a special remedy.

I was not, however, prepared for the device pulled from the arsenal of weaponry stored in the van.  It was an explosive charge attached to a detonator.  Mr Delsol explained with great enthusiasm how when the mole came to the surface, the hair trigger probe would set off the explosive charge buried in the hole and "BOOM!" (it seems to be the same word in French).

I was not too sure about the idea of blowing up things in the garden, and it was rather unclear how big a stick of dynamite he had buried down this hole.  I asked if you couldn't simply put some poison down the hole.  He looked at me as if I was some sort of poor ignorant English towney who had never set foot outside a city.  He tapped his nose (knowingly).  They would simply smell that he explained, very good sense of smell les taupes.
I was leaning a lot.  Just give me call when you hear the explosion go off and I'll come back to collect the detonator, he suggested matter of factly.

Dust to dust, ashes to ashes.....  We never did hear the explosion.  I guess we were out. Anyway it surely blew away the Geoff Capes of a mole in our garden and hopefully our lawn is now safe from further destruction (until another one moves in to the now vacated territory of La Borde Neuve).

33) Nature in the raw

A rather large but beautiful spider's web in the woods

We seem to have found ourselves rather (too) close to nature in recent days.  It certainly is quite out in the wilds here and we hear all sorts of strange noises around us - the barking of deer, the calling of buzzards, not to mention things buzzing about or hopping through the grass.

I try to take my camera with me as much as possible, but the other day on our way to our local market I forgot it.  As soon as we realised this, we said it'll be sod's law that we are bound to see something amazing.  Sure enough, on our way back, an enormous buzzard flew just yards (metres) from the car windscreen with a writhing foot (30cm) long snake in it's beak.  It was amazing.  The snake, we have convinced ourselves, was merely a grass snake - and thus perfectly harmless.

A picture is worth a thousand words.  How true (see side of van)

The other day there was great excitement, as I had finally got hold of the correct number for Mr Delsol, the assassin of guepes, frelons and all creatures great and small most of us wish the good Lord had not made at all (as can be seen from the rather terrifying, oversized image on the side of Mr Delsol's white van).

Our hornet's nest (taken on full telephoto - very quietly)

We discovered what I thought was a wasp's nest under the bolet (outside steps) leading up to the front door of the little house.  However, our fount-of-all-knowledge neighbour pointed out that, in fact, it was a hornet's nest (eeeeeeeeeeeek).  Our neighbour turned out to be something of a world expert on the subject of hornets (frelons), and he assured us that not only was it a hornet's nest, but they were Asian hornets (this was said with great gravitas and foreboding, and was enough to cause panic in even the bravest soul, let alone someone terrified of any live wasp in close proximity.  He informed me that they were tres dangereux and that if you went within ten metres of their nest they would surely attaque.  He cautioned me et Madame King to take extreme care.  Gulp.... Luckily,  our neighbour knew a man who could deal with them, and he gave me his number.  Unfortunately, in my state of heightened distress, I took down the wrong number.  I rang but there was no reply.  I left a rather garbled message in confused French saying something about a problem with un nid de frelons and I thought that the frelons were quite possibly Asiatique.  

There is great significance in the Asiatique bit because, apparently these little (actually rather big) devils landed in France (I think in Bordeaux) in some sort of boat and have, ever since, been preying on innocent beehives and causing untold havoc amongst the indigenous bee population.

Our friendly hornet killer kitted out for battle

It was thus my patriotic duty to call in an assassin to deal with this nest of predatory (and, according to our neighbour, pathologically crazed) creatures.  I tried the number again and got some bemused woman who asked if I was the Monsieur who had left a message about the hornet's nest.  Oui, oui, bien sur I said, greatly encouraged that she had got my message (though slightly surprised - I don't know why - to hear a female voice).  You have obviously have the wrong number she then said.  Merde!, I said to myself, and I apologized to the rather amused lady on the other end of the phone, who obviously did not fully understand the seriousness of the situation.

Having gone back to the neighbour (who had yet more horrifying tales to tell about the dreaded frelons), I now had the right number and, within about half an hour, Monsieur Delsol the exterminator, had arrived, complete with ubiquitous white van, an interesting array of death chemicals and (the very necessary) protective clothing.

It was all over in a few seconds.  First he punctured a hold in the nest, then in went the powder.  He assured me they would all be dead within three days.  I asked him if he could possibly come back to check.  He said that really wasn't necessary, but after I had pressed the point , he agreed.

Ominous tracks in the dust

We had also been wondering for some time what sort of creature (if any) lived down the quite large hole in the barn floor.  And I noticed the other day there were tracks leading to it.  I was having a coffee on the terrace outside the other night and I heard rustling in the undergrowth on the side of the hill.  It was obviously a creature of some size and at first I thought it might be a dog.  Then I saw it, bold as brass loloping across the lawn - it was a polecat.  Apparently, these rather beautiful creatures are now quite rare, so we are very lucky to have one, apparently living in our barn (though G is less than thrilled by the idea - rather like les frelons, les putois can be quite vicious too if they feel threatened.

A European Polecat (not my picture - it was too dark and he/she was too quick)

It turned out that the hornet assassin was also an expert on les putois.  Rather resignedly, he told me he was unable to kill it (I hadn't actually asked him to but I fear this assumption has something to do with his job) because in France they were protected (they must be about the only animal that is).  He assured me, however, that they didn't like humans - their smell (he added rather pointedly).  Probably it had moved in when the house was unoccupied, and the chances were that it would move out of its own accord, now there was the smell of humans around.  Otherwise it might move to the attic once the weather got colder, and here it would be real nuisance, nibbling away at things, making noises in the middle of the night, and to cap it all they themselves smell terrible.  We have decided to not wash for a month and keep our fingers crossed.

32) The silly season

Summer might be thought of as the time for tourists, but in this part of France it is the village fêtes that hold far more importance.  However small the community, each seems to put on some sort of do.  Clearly (as will be seen later) health and safety concerns have not yet smothered local enthusiasm  and, generally speaking, they are rather a hoot.  They often involve dancing, and are a chance for the local lotharios  to show off their skills (taken very seriously), and perhaps start a new illicit relationship (see photo above).

They are also a chance for people en masse (mainly women) to make complete arses of themselves in a spirit of group delusionism (perhaps partially brought on by the consumption of large amounts of cheap/free red wine).

The food, though, is often very good.  This Paella (now adopted as one of France's national dishes) was delicious - and there was lots of it. The ticket price varies from about 6 to 15 euros and always includes three courses, as much wine as you like and, of course, whatever "entertainment" is on offer.

Very relaxed, very friendly, and a good time had by all (or most, depending if you were hoping to get lucky or not).

This was a kind of music festival held at the bottom  of the spectacular "donjon" at Montcuq.  As far as we could tell, anyone with any pretensions at all with regard to singing was able to get up and have a go.  There was a group of worthy middle aged folk, more reminiscent of a bridge club, who sang a medley of Occitan songs, a number of aging ex-rock musicians, a few karaoke hopefuls, as well as lots of children, both individually and in groups.

Amongst the local school choir, there were some excellent singers.  It was just a pity the teacher hadn't bothered to turn up to lead them.  They needed leading.  And the two boys on the left, being rather overwhelmed by girls, definitely needed moral (and vocal) support.  In the end, the show was completely stolen by a young girl of about thirteen, whose singing might have made even Simon Cowell lost for words.

The most memorable fete we have yet been to, though, has to be the fete de la St Jean in the tiny commune of Fargues.  Originally this was apparently a pagan festival to mark the passing of the summer solstice but, like so many other rituals in France, it became Christianised.  It now is supposed to signify the coming of John the Baptist and the bonfires associated with the festival, represent the light of Christ coming into the world.  We were told that, originally, it was a time for the young men of the village to select their maidens, or for the maidens to select their young men.  Various stories abound about the village girls showing themselves off as they dance round the flames of the bonfire, or boys demonstrating their daring and prowess by leaping over the flames of the fire. Yet again, it all seems to be about getting lucky - or not.

The bonfire may be an excuse to wait until dark, but the enthusiasm of the bonfire builders at Fargues meant that it was simply (and dangerously) too big, and too (dangerously) close to everything that was going on (or might go on).  Luckily the meal took place before they lit the bonfire.  Once it took hold it became an inferno.

People abandoned their places as the plastic cups started to melt and smoke began to drift up from the now smouldering tables.  The whole thing had been set up in a field just outside the village, and the field was tinder dry.  Clearly, even by French health and safety standards, things were beginning to get a bit dodgy.

An enterprising young farmer quickly got hold of a tractor with a slurry tank attached and started to spray the burning grass (with slurry).  This did the trick.  At least, that is to say, it prevented the fire from spreading out of control.  It didn't, however, do much for the romance of the evening.

Soon the whole place was enveloped in a steamy cloud of foul smelling atomised slurry.  All notions of ardour were extinguished along with the flames and, being by now almost impossible to breathe, people started (quite rapidly) to drift away, and the evening sadly came to a premature end.  It could only happen in France.

31) The removals men arrive

Our stuff from England arrived as a "part load" (it's cheaper that way) on a 16 metre, 24 ton truck.  This presented a bit of a challenge, as there is quite a tight turn from the rather narrow road into our drive.  It looked as though, at one point, we might have to organise a second vehicle to ferry things between the enormous (marooned) truck and our house.  Luckily the driver was quite plucky and, with a certain amount of encouragement, agreed to try my suggested route across the field.  I don't know what a 24 ton, 16 metre long truck costs, but we were all quite relieved to get it to the house without it tipping onto its side, collapsing into a hidden underground limestone crevasse  or even bursting a tyre and simply getting stuck.

Sixteen metres in English is fifty two feet - which is a hell of a long vehicle. The two blokes worked incredibly hard though and, by the end of the afternoon, all our things were safely in the house.

We had no idea how much stuff we had.  What the hell was/is it all??  There was also the problem of how much of it to unpack.

We knew that at some stage (we hope) builders will arrive in force to start knocking down walls, moving staircases and such like.  At that point it would be better to have as much stuff in boxes as possible - indeed, we even may have to move out for a few weeks.  However, if we were to make a claim on the insurance for breakages, it had to be done within two weeks - which meant unpacking everything to check if anything was broken.  It soon became obvious, though, that we were not as good as them at packing.  As we unpacked each box, we found it was quite impossible to get all the contents ( plus packing materials) back into the same box. All our things had been beautifully and carefully packed and there was a real danger that our amateurish interfering was quite like to damage things either now or in the future.

In the end, we decided to leave things alone.  This did present the additional problem of how to find the things we actually needed for now.  It would have been relatively easy IF each box had been marked as to its contents.  Although they are marked, the detail tends to be rather vague - "kitchenware", "books", "attic".  As a consequence, it has been rather pot luck what we have managed to find, and certain key items are still hidden somewhere in boxes (we hope) - such as all my drill bits for instance.  I have all three electric drills, but no bits for them.  We have also been unable to find any side plates (we know the French tend not to use them, but we do).

We are, however, grateful for small mercies and it is, for instance WONDERFUL to have a proper bed again (and pillows not made from a sort of foam rubberised asbestos which heats up your head in the night).

And it's still a great view to wake up to in the mornings..................................

30) A place is found in France!

We have finally moved in.  The acte de vente (the equivalent of completion) was signed a week before, so we had one week to get all the services re-connected, whilst we still had the comparative luxury of living in the gite (hot and cold water, beds, furniture, electricity etc.)  We did pretty well.  The water was turned on, and we arranged for a plombier to re-connect the hot water tank and by-pass the boiler (which doesn't look awfully safe).  EDF turned up on schedule to turn the electricity on, and the same afternoon an electrician came to test it was all (more or less) safe.  Orange even turned up (having rung to say their van had broken down) and we got not only a telephone, but also broadband as well (after we had managed to work out the access codes, which the engineer, who only spoke Occitan, clearly did not have the slightest clue about).

As a result, we felt very pleased with ourselves - for about a day.  Then there was a spectacular storm, which blew the electrics, various taps and joints started to leak, the second loo began oozing something vile from underneath its pedestal, and the water softener, which had sat stagnant for eighteen months, rendered our water non potable.


Luckily we had arranged to have lots of different artisans come round to look at the work that needs doing, and various of them came to our rescue.  Within a few days everything was pretty much sorted, and we are now very happy in our new home (albeit we have no furniture, or indeed anything).  We are off to the UK tomorrow for a couple of weeks, then our things arrive from storage at 8.00am the day after we get back.

There is likely to be yet another lull in the postings while we are away, but in the meantime here are a few photos to illustrate where we have got to.

At the moment we have no furniture so things are a bit bare

Lots of spare bricks have allowed us to construct some temporary  tables

Two foam mattresses on the floor act as a bed (notice the curtain material on the ceiling)

A great view to wake up to in the morning, though

More bricks and an old cupboard door make quite a good dressing table (notice the quiet good taste in wallpaper)

Wildlife seen across the field from our temporary dressing room

As our tools are in store, we have had to do a Heath Robinson  on the post box

Septic tanks are definitely the less romantic aspect of rural France

Our only method of cooking is a barbecue, but what the heck?

I am getting very excited about the prospect of the wood turning out to be rich in  truffles

Although everything's very beautiful, some of the wildlife is very BIG

There are lovely walks all around, and now  the sunflowers have come out

G is very relaxed about our first dinner party (the door has already been laid)

A good time (and an enormous amount of wine) was had by all

Proud owners outside their new home in France - now the work really begins