Missing wasps, bees - and hornets.

It was only after several days of sitting happily on La Chaise main house terrace, sheltered by the vine and the wisteria, soothed by glasses of wine that I realised something was missing. Something important that was usually very, very present, that usually troubled my calm.

As I gazed at the geraniums on the balustrade, the ivy sneaking up at them from below, I saw last year’s wasp trap tangled in the climber. Then it struck me.

What was missing were the wasps, the bees and even the nasty little Asian hornets were very much not present. I had only seen one dopey full sized hornet inside the house.

Normally I sit on the terrace a little nervously, trying to guard my wine and food

The wasp trap is an empty plastic Badoit bottle clasped by a neat yellow gadget invented by an ingenious Italian. Despite the fact that my body reacts very badly to wasp and hornet stings I do hate to see them drowning. Bees seem to have more sense than to be tempted by dilute but strongly scented honey.

This worried me quite a lot. So I telephoned the local Chambre d’Agriculture in Perigueux to see if there was an expert who could explain. There was a bee specialist and he did explain. Apparently the weather in the beginning months of this year in the Dordogne had been so unstable, predominantly wet, that the queens of the vespidae had not been able to breed. ‘ But after August 15^th,’ he said,’they will be back.’

August 15^th is another pivotal day of the French July-August holiday season. Then millions of holiday makers will be on a chassee-croisee of the French motorways – it is changeover time! Fingers crossed that the wasps do not return until everyone is settled.

Seen in the woodshed...

Seen in the woodshed yesterday......!

Actually, it is only a dried wood mushroom and small at that....

Dog days in the Dordogne

On Monday 18^th July I received a warning e-mail from St Aquilin Mairie – pre-alerte jaune canicule – which had been initiated by the Prefecture de la Dordogne. The colour indicates the importance of the warning – rouge is the highest..

Proudly I mentioned this to my daughter as we were with baby boy in the pool. It was hot. She swiftly brought me down to earth. ‘You got that because you are old. Old people don’t drink enough when it is hot, water I mean.’ Baby splashed. ‘ Chickens don’t either,’ she continued,’which is why battery chicken farms have such a high mortality in extreme hot weather.’

The following Tuesday the temperature peaked at 38 C.

wet sheet hanging limply from shutters - dry in 3 hours

It takes Northern peoples some time to get round to the idea that when it is hot all doors, windows, shutters and any other apertures, should be closed. Some shutters at La Chaise will not shut because of the window boxes. These I close as far as possible and hang an old sheet over the gap. This time I first made the sheet wet.

I even hung a wet sheet over the doors to the conservatory but this year could not reach it with the hose to soak the cane protection on the roof.

Inside one has as few lights on as possible – lights give off heat plus the impression of heat. Everywhere we had fans going, tall fans on stands and table top ones. Although all that they do is to move hot air around, it feels like a breeze and anyone who is perspiring will feel immediately cooler.

I even thought of wetting the terracotta roof tiles of the chicken house. But our chickens are sensible: they hide under bushes.

Death in the valley

An evil shadow has been spread over the tranquil fields of La Chaise. Some errant dog, or dogs, have been stalking the flock in the early morning hours and killing lambs..

The flock in early morning mist

Apparently, according to a sympathetic, official passing expert, they are likely to be domestic dogs, not abandoned, not starving, for they do not eat their trophies. They are hunting for that is in their doggy nature.. So the blame lies with their humans.

For us, although we know most of the lambs are destined for slaughter, sacrifice is the more popular French word, the loss is heart-breaking. We feel we have failed to keep them safe.

One that we failed to keep safe

There is nothing, and yet a lot, that can be done to protect the flock during the hours of darkness. Firstly, they can be brought into the sheep shed, fed and closed in. This is much resented by all. The ewes have already spent more than 3 months closed in during the worst of the cold and the best of the lambing. The lambs are bored in the barn – and consequently get themselves into trouble. Also, since the furthest pasture is a kilometre trip, aller-retour, this is no fun for Alex either.

Were it permitted we could put heavy duty electric cabling round the outside of the property – all 4 kms of fencing. (Audrey checked the fencing by walking all round it – wearing a 'fitbit' thingie). This would need to be on the top and bottom of the fencing which already has two rows of barbed wire at the top, one at the bottom. Never mind the trouble, or the cost – we would be in serious trouble if some child, or other illiterate, tried to get through and got shocked, perhaps fatally.

A more long term solution is to invest in a sheep defending dog – as opposed to sheep-herding dog.

What we are permitted to do is to shoot any unaccompanied dog seen in our fields, an option as unpleasant as the killing of the lambs. But then I have to remember where we put the shot gun, and the shot – and none of us are shots of any kind. And I strongly suspect the dog, or dogs will not stand still whilst we aim. One can only hope they are trained enough to come to heel when called and so be caught.

Obviously we all have extremely unfriendly, not to say evil, thoughts about the humans involved with this dog or dogs. But we remember that, deep down, dogs are dogs. Our dear Czeta, our first black Labrador, came from an impeccable home, was extremely well trained. I even managed to train her to close the front door after she had opened it to come in. But, on arrival, she had to be discouraged from killing the farm chickens – forcibly. A chicken carcasse dowsed in diesel, and 24 hrs with same attached to her neck in the dark and smelly chicken house, subdued that instinct. So, until she had pups, the chickens lived and happy, fear-free life.

We kept one puppy with her, the future 'Edward, the Black Prince of La Chaise'. (Not so fondly remembered in Aquitaine, probably.) As soon as Edward was old enough, Czeta, as a good doggy mother, taught him to kill chickens. So he too had to go through the diesel sodden dead chicken in dark shed for 24 hours training.

It worked. But it did not stop him running away, especially after he was the father of nine pups with a female black Labrador, just over the hill, not so far away. Not that he ever came back by himself. He would plonk himself down at the neighbour's house – where he and his mother had lodged for a few weeks – and wait for us and our car to be summoned. But, to the best of our knowledge, he never killed any animal whilst on the run.

He once brought a leveret home in his mouth - alive!

slowly, slowly, grow the meat...

In the village of Chanterac I once got to know a farmer who specialised in duck rearing, making his own foie gras, confit de canard and other delicacies. He had invested heavily in what he called his laboratoire, the hygiene certified place in which he sacrificed*, cut – up and processed his ducks. He had a display and tasting room and visitors could see his ducks wandering around outside – males and females separately.

He wanted my help in marketing his holiday chalet business. The English are very odd, you know, he confided to me. They will come and feed the ducks, taste and buy the produce – but they refuse to visit my state of the art salle d'abattage. It was clean, quiet and he 'sacrificed' only a few ducks at a time.

A muscovy drake and one of his ducks - Muscovies can live up to 15 years
- they are the main breed used in producing a fat liver - but only the males.

There is a mega industrial duck crisis in the South-West of France. The region's 4,000 odd commercial breeders and foie gras producers, spread over eight departments, have been instructed to close down their operations. Their stock has to be killed, the production hangars thoroughly disinfected and where necessary brought up to certain hygiene standards. A four month long vide sanitaire has been declared.

This is an attempt to eradicate avian 'flu – a first case was signaled in the Dordogne last November on a family farm. Everyone with poultry has been asked to confine their birds to a limited area, roofed over to avoid contamination by passing wild fowl. Avian flu is deadly for fowl, nasty for humans but only passed onto to humans in very rare cases.

There is no need for me to spell out the hopefully temporary economic disaster for the area or its repercussions on the associated businesses. The region produces 80 per cent of all French foie gras. Some of the major producers are saying that – given the shut down is only for four months – there will still be foie gras du Sud-Ouest for Christmas and New Year festivities.

But I have been culpably unaware of the industrial scale of foie gras production, the sheer wastage and cruelty of it. Perhaps because I have seldom bought branded duck meat or foie gras and now will certainly consciously avoid doing so. As I occasionally observe to the visiting holiday makers, if possible, only eat meat whose origins and upbringing (parents if you will) you know. Obviously easier in the country than in town.

Man may have been given dominion over animals by God or gods but I do not think this gives us the right to turn animals into protein factories.

* Fishermen refer to the cosh they use to stun fish as a

'priest'....some remnants of respect,

In life we are....

No need to spell out the rest of this sombre quotation. We have suffered one tragedy in the fields of La Chaise, another nearer the main house.

The lambs and their mothers have been in the fields for many days now, coming in only at night. Then, a couple of days ago Alexandre mooted the notion of leaving the flock out overnight. I thought it was a good idea. The weather was clement and it took a lot of time, much rattling of the maize pan, plus encouragement from (H)aska the not-quite sheep dog, to get the newly liberated sheep back inside. This way time could be spent mucking out and mending their winter quarters.

Tonight we stay out...

To shorten the suspense, yes some beast had killed a grown lamb overnight in the field, torn off a back leg to be exact. This is not the first time we have experienced such a death. The last occurrence was when Bianca (Beauceron mostly) and Elvis-Non! were still in residence. Then a fawn had been killed in the same manner. In both cases the suspicion falls on a dog, a lost hunting dog or an abandoned pet.

We had some warning that a killer animal was around for a wounded badger was discovered by (H)aska, the day before the lamb's death, under the main house terrace. The crawl space there is not very salubrious but Audrey, with torch, did her best to see what was the matter. Apparently there was a large wound on the badger's back. It was obviously dying, Audrey thought. She was more than saddened for she thought the badger might be a pregnant female – a badger has been seen very recently prospecting for a home around the main house.

When there is a wounded or trapped wild animal, we call on the local chasse to despatch it – coypu or pine martens and similar. The chasse members are trained shots. We are not. It is a service offered to us by the chasse as its members have much appreciated our well kept pine plantation, wild boar heaven, apparently.

For those who, understandably, instinctively refuse to believe a trained pet could kill, here follows the story of the empress Czeta and her son, Edward the Black Prince of La Chaise. Czeta was an intelligent labrador. She could open – and close – doors! She held policemen at bay but not the postie. She knew our friends. Also she had been forcibly trained not to kill chickens, a diesel soaked carcass attached to her neck, both shut in a dark place overnight. Nasty. But she taught her son ..to kill chickens. Then he had to be discouraged in the same manner.

The point of an Easter Egg

Has anyone else noticed that commercial eggs, eggs bought in shops or from market stalls, lack two important characteristics? None of them are plain white and very, very few have a pointy end. (Hint: if you do see white eggs, check whether they are duck eggs before buying.)

commercial eggs, bought Sunday 27/03 morning - note triangles

To me these seem an important cultural loss, not least because teachers of English, teaching Gulliver's Travels, will have to explain what the Littlendians and Bigendians were on about to children for whom eggs are simple ovals. Secondly, it takes away the fun of hitting a boiled egg on one end or the other, or slicing through in one quick, skilled movement and argument as to which is the best technique*.

last week's La Chaise eggs

My first job, for pocket money, was in a greengrocer's shop, part of a national chain, where I packed up orders for delivery and sorted the eggs, stamped with the little British Lion mark. It was in the days of 'Go to Work on an Egg' advice, long before eggs were declared to be dangerous to health, if not downright bad for the susceptible – cholesterol and allergies. I sorted the eggs into brown and white. The brown went into a straw lined wicker basket, lion stamp inwards, under the handwritten sign 'Fresh Farm Eggs, with a handwritten price.

commercial eggs - note triangle

The virtual disappearance of the white hen's egg, deprives children and adults (usually mothers, of course) of another charming Easter ritual. This one involved interestingly shaped green leaves – clover, fern tops, small but perfect oak leaves – brown onion skins and yards of white muslin bandage.

Children collected the leaves whilst mother washed the eggs. The leaves stuck to the damp egg, which was then wrapped in onion skins, then wrapped in muslin, carefully fixed with a pin and boiled hard. Instant decorated egg.

Two prize La Chaise eggs - with pointy ends!

Later, when safe flavourless food colouring became available to housewives, the eggs were often luridly coloured and hidden in the house or garden for young children to find. When we sold our London house a couple of years ago, I found a mini chocolate cream egg in the garden, lodged in the crook between leaf stem and leaf of a ficus. I decided to leave it – for luck – for the new owner.

* If you must find an argument of this nature – try walnuts. There are those who think they are easier to crack if hit, with boxwood hammer, on the pointed end. Then there are those who think the opposite. Of course, third parties think they should be hit on the join between the two ends....This argument is confined to people hand-cracking walnuts for walnut oil purposes.