water, water everywhere

So, hooray! April's sweet showers arrived in a great, intermittent downpour – 17 cms of water in the last 13 days according to my neighbour in the valley. The tarmac road that meanders along the hill crest from the Dronne river valley to that of the Isle is shedding water into ditches that drain into sodden fields. Even the soil of the woods cannot absorb anymore.

The Black Pond in the Woods, the one nearest the hill-top road, is now over-flowing, blacker than ever. The surface nearly touches the fallen cherry-tree trunk that spans it.  The inrush of water seems to have killed the clogging pond weed that appeared towards the end of last summer. Or the many kilos of expensive pond-weed eating bacteria we poured in have multiplied at a vast rate. The raft of the intake hose is straining at its ties which I devoutly hope will hold.

The Black Pond, we were told, was dug when La Chaise was built, about 200 years ago – way before JCB's, or their first creator, were born. It is about as long as our house and as deep as our house is high, say 25 x 6 metres. Apparently there is a piped connection between it and the well in front of our house which would explain why the soil in the well, (filled in some 60 years ago) was always damp. We were told there was a valve that could shut off water inflow to the well, but we never found the handle, only its support system.

The Duck Pond by the Farmhouse is full also, much to my great relief. It had been covered in scummy, moss like weed and green lentils, like a wet scene in a Dickens novel. The solar powered fountain – an exaggerated term for an upward tinkle of water – does not sufficiently aerate the pond. Two weeks ago, on the advice of a French gardening magazine, I bought four herbivorous carp (carp amor) that would hopefully deal with the problem. They were expensive, 20€ each, a lovely silvery grey.

Nervously I brought them back, two by two, in plastic bags half filled with water, lying horizontally in the car boot. At the pond, I snipped the corners off the bags and let slip the fish into the water. I have never seen them since. But nor have I seen fish floating belly-up, so I presume they are gorging themselves. The 9 x 5 metre oval Duck Pond must be a great improvement on the 50 x 20 cm tank they shared with other varieties of carp. With luck, one of them is a female.

But the greatest joy of all is The Lake in the hollow of our valley, next to which stands the Hated Pump in its little, hooded shed. The Lake, too, is overflowing. The incoming water is drowning the grass and other weeds that were growing on its banks. A male wild duck flew up off the surface as I came by, continued to circle in the sky until I passed. Perhaps a female is nesting under the new junipers.

The Lake is fed by water draining down through the woods from the road's ditches, also the winter stream that runs from the ravine (our private wild-life reserve). The stream has cleared itself of the clogging dead leaves, revealing a clay soil with the occasional quartz pebble (and golf ball). That which is just a dreary ditch in summer is now what is pronounced as a 'burrrne' in Scots. Wee, but effective.

There is only one snag in all this joy. I have seriously, but seriously, to repress my Dutch instincts. I must not, repeat not, try to channel, direct, hold back, turn into a power source, any of this water. I must just let it flow, flow, flow. And hope it is still there in the summer when it is needed.

Why I kiss the Mayor

It may have escaped your attention, especially if you do not live in France, but this coming Sunday is the first round in the French Presidential elections. It is the first time in all our 30 plus years here that we are dismayed by both candidates. The incumbent President is an uneducated, unpleasant little man with an oversized ego, no apparent hard core of beliefs except to hold on to power which is gradually pulling him towards the seriously unpleasant right. His over-educated, smooth challenger describes himself as 'Mr Normal' and seems boringly so. His lack of experience of practical economics or anything political outside of France, his lack of government experience may be normal but are worrying. On the positive side, he did manage to hold together a fissiparous Socialist party for many years, a feat in itself.

But why, you may expostulate, should this bother me? I am not a French citizen, not responsible for these politicians or their politics. The trouble is that I am on the receiving end of their political ideas – I pay my taxes in France and cannot vote for those who spend my money. 'No taxation without representation' is a famous slogan born in that other country currently undergoing Presidential elections – the United States. And this is why I started to kiss my local Mayor all those years ago.

As a citizen of a European community state, I am allowed by the French government, to vote in local elections which are held roughly every five years. There is some local electioneering, party meetings and greetings and then the great voting day when I post my bulletin in the transparent vote box. Both incumbent and would be local politicians are present. Every time I go up and kiss the Mayor (no hardship, he is very attractive, was the sports instructor of local secondary school) and whisper in his ear. I want him to create a bill to bring before the French parliament – possibly even the European parliament - that will suggest that EEC citizens can vote where they pay their taxes. So they just might have a little influence on how their money is spent.

And to add insult to injury today I received the hefty book of instructions, plus form, for filling in my UK tax return.   I have dutifully paid my UK taxes ever since I became a UK citizen, which is about the same time I left the country.  When I lived there, I was not British, so could not vote but paid my taxes anyway.  You may argue that in both cases I benefit from state spending funded by taxes - but I still argue that I have no choice in who decides how it is spent.

Given that the Eurobureaucracy was able to produce legislation on the size and length of cucumbers (this may be a bureaucratic legend, but it is a good one) it should not be beyond their collective wit to create a transferable voting system.   Just think of all the jobs it would create.

On a less grumpy note, I have seen the first wild orchids – and before the sheep got to them! The Lazy Purples are always the first to show their untidy heads, scattered under the ash trees in a corner of the nearest field.

exit, pursued by a robin

It is with great pride that I announce the reception of 7mm of rain since we last corresponded! New flowers opened overnight – suddenly the woodshed is garnished with a heavy fringe of wisteria. Eliot's lilacs are blooming, both the white and the dark mauve, the heavy scented mock orange bushes are covered in flowers. Amongst the most attractive blossoms are those of the cherry and the blackthorn. But the welcome rain scattered their fragile petals which now lie like confetti on the ground.

The grass looks almost lush, though still short, and there are men around starting to mutter about mowing. Once let out the sheep don't know where to go first, dashing from one intensely green clump of grass to another, calling for their lambs with mouths full. The lambs ignore their mothers, being far too busy doing a group rush in one direction, a wheeled turn and a rush back. Eating grass is not one of their priorities.

The rain seems also to have encouraged the birds. The dawn chorus is livelier than ever, warbled squabbles continue sporadically throughout the day. The coucou occasionally makes its voice heard, as does the pigeon. The golden orioles might be back. One of the many varieties of wood-pecker drills in short, sharp bursts. Of course, we all know that this delightful bird song has a purpose. It is being used like so many theodolites to determine one bird's territory, establish this same in the mind of other, rival birds. Oh, and to attract the girls.

I seem to have inadvertently got involved in a territorial war myself. There is a shed in which various DIY and YDI tools are kept, also tins of paint, odds and sods of wood, things that might come in useful. It has boxes of screws, nails, bolts and piles of hammers and files, yards of wire, a wooden box labelled 'mamma's: keep out'. Fat chance. In short it is a country workshed. It used to be mine. Then the house-martins briefly colonised the beams with their nests but were chased away by the late lamented cats. It is now nearly two years since Buster, the last cat, left us and no cat has ventured from the woods to join us – dissuaded by the dogs Bianca and Elvis-Non!

So I should not have been surprised when I was attacked by a small, feathered fury as I went into the shed to rummage for something I thought was there. Instinctively, I ducked, as I would for a flying bat, my arm coming up to protect my hair and eyes.

Yes, I felt stupid, but instinct sometimes makes one do silly things. Bravely, dominating instinct, I continued to rummage, but an aggressive chittering was coming from the far corner. I was dive- bombed again. I left the shed, pursued by a robin. Two wings win over two legs any time.

But I can close with a second proud announcement: tonight is the first night that sheep and lambs will stay out all night!

walking with sheep

As I zig-zag behind the scattered sheep, to group them into a flock, steer them my desired way, I wonder - is this really a sensible activity for an untrained human? One person and his dog would take minutes to get the sheep from where they are to where they are wanted. It takes me an hour.

Multi-tasking, the body working, the brain concerned with something else, is not an option. Sunday morning I brooded on why T.S. Eliot decided that it should be 'lilacs' that were forced out of the dead land by the cruel month of April as opposed to any other of the spring flowering bushes. Perhaps lilac referred back to 'dead land' because it was a colour in the stages of formal Victorian mourning. Possibly, he used it because 'lilac' has a hard, plosive sound. Somehow, breeding 'viburnum', or 'forsythia' out of the dead land is not impressive. He chose 'lilac'.

By the time I stopped ruminating on this non-problem, two ewes and their respective twins, had managed to get behind me. They were busy on a patch of particularly delicious grass with daisies. So, after a wide circle round them, waving outstretched arms, I urged them to join the others. Once, before the Wonderful Arnold was with us full-time, the sheep knew my voice. I only had to yell - 'come on les filles' - and they would duly come.

Nowadays the whole operation works on a balance of power basis. I want them out, into a particular field to 'mow' that fairway. They just want out. But with arms and a lot of patience, I get them near yesterday's field. Suddenly they remember that there is where they want to be, rush through the open gate. The lambs mostly follow. Chaos follows if one of the lambs gets left behind. Lamb panics, cannot see the open gate, hurls itself at the fence. Fingers crossed that mother ewe comes to fetch it before its head gets stuck in the fencing. Lambs have sharp little hooves that make great bruises. Ewes have been known to head-butt anyone helping with their off-spring.

On the return, the balance of power is much more in my favour. Towards the end of the day, the ewes realise that they would like assorted grains and lucerne served in a nice manger. They stand grouped at the gate, bawling. With luck they don't panic when they see me rather than Arnold. They walk more or less steadily towards the barn, calling their offspring. The racket is appalling. They still get distracted; a good back scratch under the twisted pear tree, a drink from a different water tub, a patch of grass that was missed on the way down has to be eaten now.

Then, o bliss, they are in the run to the barn. I close that barrier and hurry to close the barn doors before one does an about turn and tries to go out again. The first comers are munching their grain, yelling with their mouths full for lambs to come, now! I close and tie up the inner gates. Why don't I get a sheep dog? Well, I don't like hairy dogs, no longer have the patience to learn another language, am in enough trouble with Spanish and Catalan as it is.

beware the icy saints

My winter love affair has come to an abrupt end. The reason is the unseasonable heat. Here we are, in the last week of March and afternoon temperatures are in the mid twenties centigrade. Not even the most besotted cook is going to keep her beloved wood-fired range alight in those temperatures.

Electricity is an inadequate substitute. Every year I have to switch cooking styles to suit the heat source, which puts a considerable strain on my temper. There is a gap in my hospitality whilst I relearn summer habits, summer recipes. But the summer vegetables are not here, at least not ones that can be locally sourced. We are still in the leeks, carrots, cabbage, onion, phase. (I shall skip all mention of the root vegetables more usually fed to cattle.)

There is no sign of a break in the warm weather though Meteo France is indicating rain showers starting Sunday – April 1^st, should one take that seriously? If one goes by Chaucer, the answer would be yes:

'Whan that Aprille with his shoures sote,

the droght of March hath perced to the rote..'

Some piercing to the root would be beneficial to all the plants that were brutalised by the February snow and frost. A few herb plants are beginning to revive but I shall have to replace the sage and the rosemary bushes. The blossom has come rather early on the fruit trees, possibly the first to show was the peche de vigne, dark pink blossom that will be followed by a lovely red-skinned peach with white flesh. The apple, pear and wild plum trees are just coming into flower.

But, of course, there are problems ahead. The first is the lune rousse which is the first lunar month after Easter. It is said that it brings clear skies and so cold days with the possibility of light frosts. This could arrive any time in the last three weeks of April. The frosts might just nip the tips of new plants, turning them red...hence rousse.

Even when April is finished, our difficulties are not over. Beware the saints de glace. They are Saint Mamet on 11^th May, once archbishop of Vienna, died 777; Saint Pancrace on 12^th May, martyred aged 14 in Rome, date unspecified; and Saint Servais on 13^th May, a bishop who died a martyr in 384. (I know, it does seem odd to have years with only three numbers..) These saints are popularly supposed to create a cold snap. Locally there is much muttering in the month of May, shall we or shall we not take notice of the Ice Saints? An attempt has been made to reduce the influence of two by pairing them with female saints, so Saint Mamert is joined by Saint Estelle, Saint Servais's friend is Saint Rolande.

Beware if you do not observe the first three saints, for you could just be caught out by Saint Urbain, a pope (the first of his name) who died in 230. His name day is May 25^th. Well, it was – now his day has been allocated to Saint Sophie. May her influence be warm.

Ah well, perhaps my love affair is not over, perhaps we are just taking time off or out, whatever the current fashionable phrase is, perhaps we shall get together again for April and May, my wood fired range and me.

spring is nearly sprung

The signs of spring continue to multiply. The latest are the cowslips, very pale yellow and curiously short stemmed. Of course the grass, against which they would normally have to compete, is short also. Alas, and alack, lack of rain is mostly responsible. It makes me sentimental about the days Before Sheep, Before Golf Course, when there was spring rain, the grass was just allowed to grow and a neighbour turned it into hay. The fields looked like an advertisement for 'natural' shampoo: cowslips, three different colours of wild sage, ox-eye daisies, thistles, clover and trefoil, large dandelions, the woodland trimmed with violets and the scrubland with creeping thyme and majoram. In April the wild orchids began to appear, often nestling near the junipers.

But I have to remind myself that hay and I do not get on. I react strongly to the various grass and tree pollens. Drifting through a flower strewn field, long hair flowing, whilst pink nosed and sneezing is no advertisement for anything – except allergy remedies. So it really is better to have the sheep and just try to get to the wild flowers before they do, especially the orchids.

The aspens and the hazels are shedding their catkins now but I seem to be able to cope. Fortunately the pines are not yet releasing their pollen. The visual impact of the pines is a curious aspect of every spring. Huge, black Rorschach blots, they dominate the forest, loom over the naked deciduous trees, make one wonder whether the latter will ever produce leaves again. In our woods, they will.

But across the road, where the wood cutters have made a coupe rase, (they cut everything), the deciduous trees will not come back. A few spindly ones, rejects, have been left standing as have a few pines. Neither are likely to withstand a severe wind. The woodland ground is covered with the heads of the cut trees, branches too small to be of any use today. This is 'natural regeneration' at work. Men are too expensive to clear the forest floor and, in theory, saplings should be able to force their way through the rough cover. Eventually the cut branches will decay, turn into humus for the new trees. In the meantime, the land is impassable to anything but wild life that can spring, or charge or wriggle its way through. It is a bleak and depressing sight. A waste.

It was not always so. When we first selectively cut down some of the larger oaks surrounding our house - with particular attention to those that were practically leaning on the roof – our neighbours watched with interest. Once the trunks and larger branches were down, cut, split and stacked, we received a visit from a couple who lived at Chantepoule. Could they have they have the left over heads of the oaks, tidy up for us? The grandmother could use the wood. It would be most kind.

We were kind.

Then Madame Veuve V..., somewhere in her seventies, came herself, armed with a billhook that probably weighed as much as she did. It was certainly as long as her fore-arm. She set to and I bolted back to the house to make sure I knew the phone number of the emergency services; to check I had enough bandages, plasters and brandy. Then I kept away until, a few days later, she came to announce she had finished. There was a considerable pile of wood. It would keep her cuisinière going all winter she said. She could not imagine a winter without her cuisinière . As the expert told me, when I was looking for a wood fired cooker plus water heater, you need a grandmother sitting next to it, feeding it small wood all day.

all things bright...

Here follows a determined attempt at optimism, cheerfulness, a positive view of the present and the immediate future. I won't commit further than the immediate future because that would be asking too much, of me and of the future.

Firstly, it appears that I have started a fashion in horse head gear! Horses wear fancy, all in one, eye and ear protectors in stiff black mesh, to ward off flies. Pharao, daughter Clea's horse, managed to destroy the ear pieces on his. Presumably by rubbing his ears against tree trunks to get rid of flies – whatever. Clea asked if I could mend the headgear as it was urgently needed. So I cobbled something together out of black and white cotton fabric, not canonical but effective. Now, all the horses at Pharao's livery stables have multi-coloured ear coverings. The things mothers can do.

Following on the horse theme, today I managed to be present at a horsey meeting where horses were doing dressage, obstacles and cross-country. There were horses everywhere, some tethered, some in charge of persons seemingly much too small to control them. Although I almost always managed to make sure there was someone or something between me and the horse, I survived the day without going weak at the knees, or needing more wine than usual at lunch. I had forgotten what a friendly occasion such a meeting could be. Next time I might get to pat Pharao. The time after that I could hold out my palm with a chunk of carrot on it , eyes closed, and wait for him to eat it. And that is as far as I will go with that.

Today I also managed to go for an early evening walk to the far, Pump pond, partly to see whether the duck seen on the duck pond this morning, had moved there. A couple of them have been inspecting the Black Pond in the Woods but have not stayed. So far they have all been drakes, the ducks seem to be playing coy. The other objective was to look at the water and the grassland. Despite the lack of rain – we have had no water since the snow melted – there is water flowing in our streams.

Admittedly the flow starts fairly far downstream. The spring at the twin oaks bridge has moved a few feet further towards the Pump pond but the water flowing from it has managed to clear the leaves. One can even see some water-cress beginning to

grow. All we need now is a good, steady, down-pour to clear the rest of the leaves and the Pump pond will start to fill.

Again, despite the lack of rain, the grass is growing in the fields, patchily and not always the sheep's favourite grass, but it is growing. A neighbour has promised to scarify those parts of the fields being stifled by weeds and moss. Then grass should grow again. Warm days and new grass, being allowed out of the barn – who could spoil sheep any more? Letting them back in to fresh hay and best grains, that's how we do it. Selfish, of course, because it does mean they are more likely (no guarantees) to lamb inside.

And this morning, between breakfast and being allowed out, one ewe successfully gave birth to twins, all by herself. There really is nothing more to say about that.