Urban sights for country eyes

So, Country Mouse has been in London for nearly two months!   Heimweh! Nostalgie!

The London parks and squares are gloriously in flower, central London seems tidier than I remember it - less rubbish floating around but the same amount of indelible gum on the pavements.

Ceanothus hides a London fence

The weather has been favourable, too, a little rain and one totally unexpected hail-storm whilst I was safely in a taxi.  A couple of days of near gale force winds which proved that London pollen is probably more allergisante than that in the country.   Also my anti-histamine pills appeared to be two years out of date...

While a large part of London is still a building site, it seems to me that builders have got somewhat more considerate.   The hammering, banging, and clang of scaffolding hitting pavement, is still there.    But it does not appear to be accompanied by raucous pop music in any one of the many languages that are now heard in the capital. Not even whistling... Even the 'conveniences' are more - discreet? aesthetic? Though nowhere as elegant as the wooden, flat pack compost toilets made by Alexandre. Sadly, I have no picture of those.

and it gets gently lifted away..

London's rubbish collection seems to work 24/7 - again with no commentary or music from the people concerned. Somehow, the rattle of a restaurant's bottles falling into the rubbish cart is soothing.  In some parts of town attempts a being 'green' and encouragement to residents to recycle are aggressively obvious - below is a formerly 'fashionable' street in Southwark.  Who would pay hundreds of thousands to live with these at their front door?

sometimes there is a brown bin, too

One of the more imaginative of Southwark's inhabitants created a splendid solution - but it is not one that can be adopted everywhere. Can't just put anything, anywhere on a pavement in London. And it probably cost more than the ten odd euros we paid the commune for our wooden compost bins.

assume owner has Council permission...?

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The fly-by-nights

We rushed through France, on our way from Spain to England - a stay of barely a week.   Just time to empty suitcases, imagine the possible weather in London, re-pack, leave the restored baby Audi in the safe hands of Jerome,Clea,Alexandre and Audrey - and eventually the garage.

Just time to see the first of Roger the (new) Ram's offspring and the last of DSK's (the previous ram, sadly dead of tetanus - according to the vet) which was the first lamb of the year. So far this year the lambs have mostly been singletons but all very vigorous.  They have invented a new game: one, two, three - jump in the manger, get in all the mothers' way!  And wait to be lifted out by Alexandre.

Hallo World!   Here's Me!

We came back to the other spring joys of life in France - strikes by workers whose pay ultimately comes from taxpayers, radio, railways and air traffic controllers.   The effects of the first were not overall bad, the popular station just put out terrible pop music, the classical station put out less talk and more proper music - unfortunately this included many variations on 'Happy Birthday' and 'God Save the Queen' which got tedious. .

We booked our flights from Bordeaux with no problem and, as usual I went to the St Astier railway station to buy our train tickets.   This time I had decided we were Too Old to rush, with large, red four-wheel drive suitcase, for an 07.45 morning train on the day of our flight, so bought tickets for the day before.   When paying for same, I saw a hand-written notice that the SNCF would be on strike on the day of our flight.   Priding myself on my foresight, I later learned that the air traffic controllers were already on strike and would be on the day of our flight.

However, the storks are still nesting on a pylon at Coutras station - the train conductor confirmed a recent viewing.  We had a good night at the hotel and our flight was only two and half hours late, swamped by irate Ryanair passengers who had been abandoned.

We got to Gatwick and tried the electronic eye passport control: did not work for either of us but kind official persons showed us through.   This saved at least a half hour of queue-time. Efficiently bought our Gatwick Express tickets in luggage reclaim hall and headed for train.   It really is time the Gatwick Express put down new rails.  We were rattled and shaken all the way to Victoria.  Fortunately there was a very nice person on the drinks trolly and champagne - sorry, fizzy wine - does not curdle.

Coming back is so very hard to do...

We arrived at La Chaise early in the pink-streaked evening.  The sitting room fire had been lit, as had the Rayburn, the warm smell of chestnut smoke greeted us as we left the car.  And a small, screeching grandson heralded us by hurling golf balls in triumph. All was well - but very different from Sant Feliu on the Costa Brava.

A rude awakening the following morning for I had forgotten to feed the Rayburn with its night-time snack.  It was stone cold. A fast sortie to the wood for kindling and thin logs to get it going again.  Fortunately the chickens take their anti-flea baths by the wood pile, so many scraps of wood surface.
No time for finesse, some scrumpled paper, several (paraffin!) firelighters, the wood scraps on top and  scatter lit matches.   All draught controls open, Rayburn was in a forgiving mood, so lit easily and was soon warm. Range toast and fresh eggs poached, only missing was home-made marmalade, otherwise a real country breakfast.

A walk round the fields and woods after lunch, seeing decay and growth all round.  A new crop of mushrooms, like overgrown lichen, on an oak stump, digesting and reducing it to soil.

Scum or lichen like?   Mushrooms at work

 

 

 

 Then further into the woods, to admire the spreading moss in all its lush green glory, imitation of bracken fronds, nano palm trees, all working to reduce these pine tree stumps to mulch.

Here the raised roots are all covered by the mosses, the cut side of the stump is just being colonised, a few spots of lichen attempting to install themselves in competition.

Lichen sometimes has an artistic soul - can one anthromorphise with parasites?  It had some help from a mining or pecking species

Full of thoughts, I got back to the kitchen to re-stock the Rayburn.   A good bed of embers meant I had no need of matches.   Lighting fires without matches is a little country challenge created by rural masochists.    But I had remembered to bring back some fir-cones which greatly help with combustion.

Mildly pleased with my forethought, I started to sweep the kitchen floor.   Fires are very messy, not just in terms of soot, cinders and splinters but also for the dust, dust, dust everywhere. A shock and my brain re-engaged with reality, reality at the foot of my broom.   A peacock butterfly lay spread on the floor.  Quite out of season.   I can only assume it came in with a log, on which it was hibernating, almost invisible, and the warmth brought it out of its torpor.

Had I been a mouse, I might have been frightened, but I was just worried. What to do?

Using a stiff sheet of paper, I lifted it off the floor and it closed its wings.  Placed on the earth of an empty window box, it was practically invisible - which is probably why I missed it on the log.  Perhaps when I am back again, this coming summer, I shall see its offspring everywhere.   We have a good nettle nursery for the eggs.

What do Sheep think of Us?

There are times when I think sheep are indulging in a spot of ovismorphism.  It is that blank look, the unmoving eyes with their slit pupils whilst the jaws, with their one row of teeth, masticate whatever has been picked up.  Are they wondering what kind of deformed or dumb ovis ovis I am?   Does Roger the Ram wonder what kind of ovis aries Arnold or Alexandre are?

And just what use are you?

Certainly bottle fed lambs (agni) think the bottle holder is some form of ewe.  There I was, in the sheep shed, with a bottle of milk for a lamb that had been rejected by its mother.  Ewes can be difficult.  It was one of a pair of twins and came hurtling towards me when I called.  

I bent over slightly and held the bottle next to my right knee. The lamb gave my knee a couple of perfunctory head bumps and latched onto the teat.   It's stomach visibly swelled as it suckled.  A lamb that is suckling an ewe is not given as much time on the teat as a lamb on the bottle. The ewe gets bored and walks off.  The bottle fed lamb gets more milk in one go.

Then I became aware that the situation was being studied by the other twin. Its reasoning process appeared to be as follows:
brother on teat,-
mother has two teats, -
other teat must be free, -
mother (very odd shape) standing very still, -
must seize opportunity. -   

It then gave a couple of hefty head bumps to the back of my left knee, seized a fold of my jeans and started vigorously to suck. Disappointed, it gave up before the right knee lamb had finished its bottle.

The purpose of the head bumps, I have been told, is not to express any form of affection or recognition but an imperative reminder to the ewe that she must let the milk down. It is quite an endearing habit when the lamb weighs under 15 kg....  Less so when they get to be over 25 kg.. 

Once we had 3 ram lambs on the bottle and continued feeding them in the field to get them up to a proper weight.  Towards the end this meant sitting on the style, manipulating 3 one litre bottles whilst Bruiser, Boxer and Battler beat my knees, and each other, with their thick skulls.  Unfortunately, lambs have relatively long memories, perhaps they recognise one's way of walking - I don't know. Even when weaned, they would rush up and try to beat my knees.

sometimes one could do with a  third hand...

In the summer, when everyone is in the fields, the lambs are nearly fully grown and the ewes have forgotten the horrors of suckling, ovismorphism becomes even more evident.  There one is, strolling down the hill, admiring the flowers - and the sheep decide they are bored with the field.  There is a sudden, disrespectful rush past the human as they queue in front of the gate to the next field. 

Their heads swing round as they wait for the human - or oddly shaped stupid, two legged ovis ovis - to come open this gate.  The sound one hears is not 'baa' or 'beeeh'  but most definitely 'booo' until their will is done.

Extended summer

It is fast becoming a habit, the migration of Percival Parents to warmer climes as the Dordogne winter hovers.   I say 'hovers' deliberately, for this year the Indian summer lasted practically till the end of October.  We left before it did.

 The grapes dried on the vine before I could pick them. (Alexandre won't let me use the step ladder anymore, we are both too wobbly, the ladder and self).  And, as a result of the lingering warmth, some plants got quite confused. Rose bushes tentatively offered buds,which I quickly picked.The olive tree - presented to the aged PP's this summer - settled happily into its new quarters at the bottom end of the the garden.  The theory behind its location is that it would get direct sunlight from about 11 a.m. until practically sundown. So far, so good.
 

Here's a happy little olive tree

It was also decided to plant out, i.e. take out of its pot and put in the earth, the latest oleander which should produce wonderful, dark red blooms.  And it started to do so - having sulked all official summer time.   Lack of sunlight, Audrey pronounced, Michelle (the giver) thought so too - then Arnold and Alexandre supported Audrey's thesis. So could not argue.  Since Jeremie was coming with his small digger to clean out the sheep shed anyway, we decided to ask him also to dig planting holes.  Both jobs well done.

But the oddest plant reaction of all, was that of the gourd which is draping itself all over the wrought iron gate to the vegetable garden.  A&A planted the gourd next the gate because they found the latter rather 'stark'. I keep forgetting to tell them that the curved archway, with its simple gate, was designed and lovingly wrought by the wrought iron specialist of Riberac, a certain Monsieur Beau.
 

A late gourd flower, behind it - the result of a previous flowering..

Anyway, the gourd suddenly decided to flower again.   Fragile white flowers came, showed but lasted only a day.

There is no understanding plants.

The Greed Factor

Fear not, despite the prevailing gloom in local shops and cafes, despite the dire predictions of taxi drivers, boletus edulis, the coveted cepe did make a belated appearance.   Two weeks late compared to last year. A very long two weeks for the dedicated cepe hunter-gather-consumer.

So, as usual, there were cars parked in every gap in the woods that was accessible by road.  And in the roadside ditches, elderly persons risked life and limb (they should know better) slithering along, armed only with a hastily cut stick and a battered plastic bag.

And, as usual, in the local shops and cafes - even the hairdressers' salons - the arguments rage over whether and how to control the harvesting of this highly prized wild mushroom.  What makes people cross is partly jealousy - of the greater gathering success of some - partly anger that non wood owners 'profit' from their success on wood owners' property by selling what they have stolen.  For it is still legally theft to take wild mushrooms from land that does not belong to you.

A rare boletus triplet, the top one is actually growing on the
left hand one, found in La Chaise woods.

And, as usual, humans are attempting to control nature, domesticate the wild. Way back in 1995 an association was created, the Cepe du Perigord to research ways and means of encouraging cepes to grow with greater regularity and in greater quantity. Last year Cepe du Perigord formally became a brand name and those selling under this name have to conform to certain standards of presentation, identification, date of harvesting - and be owners of woodland. Reassuring for the ignorant buyer - and who would be bold enough to be certain of their judgment in the matter of fungi?

So far it does not look as though the cepe can be reliably cultivated though there are various theories on how to encourage their growth. Number one theory is to keep out trampling hordes of ignorant, non woodland owners. It is true that once we had fenced in part of our woodland, our 'harvest' of all sorts of wild fungi more than quadrupled.

Surprisingly, the sheep seem to do little damage to emerging fungi, even when eagerly turning over the fallen leaves in search of chestnuts and acorns.
They were not even tempted to kick at the largest puff-ball ever.

The largest vessie du loup EVER

mushrooms, mushrooms everywhere

and not a single one

fit to eat.

All in field three!