Life In 79

Just as we thought we had said farewell to the last of our visitors... I was doing some light hoeing in the vegetable patch when I heard a ‘chomping’ noise behind me. On looking round I saw a large creature on the compost heap munching on a decomposing courgette. Ascertaining it was a cat and not a rat, and that we don’t have a cat, I called Anna to come and have a look. Her motherly instincts kicked in and she beetled off to get some tuna for the emaciated puss, which it wolfed down. The following day I left for a week in the UK. On my return, the cat is still with us, having two hearty meals a day, has its own food and water bowl, a fluffy cat bed and is called Fabergé.  Having two children allergic to cats and not wanting Fabergé squirting his scent on our furniture, if he wants to stay, he will have to live in the outhouse. We have been a dog family for the past fourteen years and are not used to the ways of Br’er cat. Having lunch we heard a scrabbling at the back door and saw...

As the summer draws to an end, so does the long list of friends and relations who have come to visit. On holiday one has a tendency to eat, drink and make merry, but when hosting, it can become one long summer of over indulgence and the swimming trunks can start to chafe. Anna becomes a frenetic red coat, leading the activities: croquet, pétanque, badminton. This may sound grander than it is. In reality the croquet pitch is an undulating paddock with molehills, the pétanque ‘pitch’ is our drive and we use a potato for a jack and there is a high chance of standing on a thistle when shuttlecocking. We have a shortlist of excursions we repeat throughout summer. I have been to the Oriental gardens in Maulévrier four times this summer and am there so much, often get mistaken for a gardener. When Anna’s sister and family from Australia came to stay we visited La Rochelle for a day and a night. What a wonderful place, the harbour, the history, the shopping, the street entertainers. W...

Midsummer madness. The heat and solitude of living in the middle or rural France have made us obsess about certain things. A moratorium has now been placed on topics of conversation. I am not allowed to talk about the pigeons in the barn and slipping roof tiles, Anna, the swimming pool, which we were lucky enough to inherit with the house. When the division of responsibility occurred  she took on all things poolside. As soon as she is up, she is off to the pool to check on any over night casualties, run a series of experiments to ascertain the pH levels of the water and scoop out any flotsam and jetsam with a net. Any woodland creatures who have sadly not made it through the night are ceremoniously jettisoned over the hedge into the farmer’s field. Anna’s mood can hinge on the performance of the robot that trundles around the bottom of the pool for several hours a day, hoovering up dirt and debris. If he (Roman), has missed a bit on his travels, he goes back in, some...

Big decisions! Shorts or trousers? Just a T-shirt? T-shirt and a jumper? T-shirt, shirt and jumper? It looks a beautiful day from inside, then once out there’s an unexpected nip in the air. Just as you think summer has truly arrived storm Miguel shows up and decimates the tomatoes. It was carnage when I went to the vegetable patch the morning after...broad beans everywhere.   The fly screens are on the windows and blankets a distant memory. At night it’s like sleeping in a slow cooker, and the mosquitoes have been out in force, bleeding you dry. But then at three in the morning there’s a ‘ping’ on the phone as your Wi-Fi provider warns of a storm brewing. Anna rushes downstairs, yanking every available plug from their moorings. The cushions! The cushions are still outside on the sunloungers! Anna disappears into the darkness, I stay in bed hoping she doesn’t meet a wild boar en route. She returns informing me that the hatches have been battened and the washing taken in. We return t...

At  the end of the weekly shop, with all the provisions packed and paid for we always hear ‘bonne journée’ followed by a cheery ‘au revoir’ from the French cashier. We enthusiastically reciprocate and leave the shop knowing that everything is good with the world. And this seems to be the case across the board, whichever supermarket we're in, Hyper U, Leclerc, Carrefour or Lidl. In a British supermarket, you might receive a 'bye', 'see ya' or just a grunt as you manhandle your trolley out of the shop. And yet on the road the French become a different creature altogether. As you pull over to let the oncoming car pass, is there a wave, nod, lift of the finger in acknowledgement of your generous act? Nothing! They drive past as if you're not even there. 'Well, don't say thank you'. The British, on the other hand, when behind the wheel love to nod, wink, wave or flash the lights at any opportunity. If you are driving down a country lane in France and meet...

My watch broke recently so for the past few weeks I have been timeless. My daily routine has been dictated by two things, daylight and hunger. When the sun comes up so do I, when it starts getting dark, I’m ready for bed, similar to a bird, except I don’t start singing first thing. The second, my stomach. When I feel a mild hunger pang, I think ‘nearly lunch’ probably about 12.15, a more prolonged pang 12.30, ‘I’m starving’ one o’clock. The same applies for tea.   When I was a teacher back in the UK, my whole working day was dictated by old father time. Up at at 6.30, in the car 7.25 (avoid the 7.30 rush), first lesson starts 8.45, etc. Maybe a couple of hours in the evening that were my own, but the rest tick tock.  Since moving to France our whole routine has had to change, shops close for two hours in the middle of the day, eating later in the evening, post offices that are rarely open, no DIY shops open on a Sunday. The year is more prominantly divided in two – the long ho...

On the journey back from the UK Anna had been working her way through a family pack of Skittles when she yelped, as a large section of one of her back teeth broke off (the offending tooth had been threatening to jump ship for quite a while). It was time for our first visit to a French dentist...being a supportive husband I went with her.   The nearest dentist we were able to register with was in Loudun, which is quite a way from where we live. To lighten the mood I offered to stop off for a packet of Skittles, but received a withering look.  Anna told me that Loudun is the dental capital of western France having three surgeries she could have gone with. We had heard stories about French dentsits, but the practice was very modern and all the staff welcoming. After ten minutes in the waiting room she perked up when the dentist appeared, a young man with film star good looks. Anna had google translated some key phrases ‘my tooth fell out’, ‘it is very painful’, ‘how much will thi...