It was 11pm and my partner, Ness, was due the next day for a two week visit for Christmas, I had to pick her up from the airport and I was so excited I could have pee'd myself. The weather had turned cold, and it's not unusual to have -10C overnight, but this night was -2C. The stars were refracting their blazing light from every inch possible of the sky, and the moon glowed, throwing the most immensely beautiful light, warming the look of the chilly fields, roof tops and lanes around. Other than that, my paltry, inefficient but sentimentally attached to me torch was the only other light source guiding my route.
On my little journey to the caravan, upon entering I realise that Chance, (one of my boys) did not have any water. Due to his newly discovered heart condition he drinks almost as much as I do, but water, not wine. I popped the boys into the caravan with the heater blasting making it so very cosy. My normal trip to the tap is not overly far, is on a slight slope but would appear now that it was fraught with danger.
On the way down I glanced at the pile of logs that I thought I must clear tomorrow, in case it snows. I must have missed seeing the most enormous blade of grass because I tripped over it and slipped down the tiny slope at the highest point, my foot went underneath me and then my whole weight crashed down onto my leg at an angle that made it snap like a dry stick, and the sound of it shot into the darkness like a canon. In fact, I heard three snaps, which presumably was my fibular breaking in three stages. My screams and swearing lit up the skyline in a blue haze. My torch had gone out, and I was alone on the frosted floor, wondering what the bloody hell I was going on. I had hoped that my neighbour had heard my cries, but she did not come. Strange things go through one's head when you are in such immense pain. My thoughts turned to my dogs that were alone in the caravan and Chance would be waiting for his water.
No one heard me scream, and unless I could haul myself up I knew that if I laid there for much longer I would get hypothermia and probably die. I had no idea how long I had been there, so somehow I got myself up. Now, they say when pedestrian victims of car accidents are struck they have been known to act out their last thought and punch their perpetrator before dropping down dead. I suspect before I hit the deck the water bottle and the importance of it was my last thought so I convinced myself that I had only sprained my ankle and carried on with my duty, hopped to the tap, filled the bottle with water and hopped 30 yards up hill to the caravan got up the step put the water in the bowl, got a elasticated bandage from the cupboard and sat on my bed.
I thought that if I just put my leg up overnight in a bandage then it would be alright in the morning and I would probably limp for a while. Then I looked at my leg. The swelling was colossal, and I thought Ness would kill me if I didn't get some ice on it and do the 'proper thing'. I wasn't looking forward to this, my trip was about 150 yards down to the neighbour's house, down the slope, down concrete steps and on the road but I managed and banged fully on the door. She was down the stairs in a flash and had me sitting in the chair and ice around my ankle before I knew where I was.
The most humiliating thing for me was being ferried in a wheel chair through the hospital wards to the emergency reception. Plus, I had my work gear on and was covered in sawdust and mud having chopped a lot of logs that day. The one thing I do when I am nervous is talk a lot, and I can come up with any subject, but when the x-ray was shown to me and I could see the gap where bone should be, it finally hit me what I had done. I was silenced. Then my whole body went into shock and I started to shake uncontrollably.
The following day, after two hours sleep I hopped again, from my neighbour's gite to the cottage to 'phone Ness to tell her that I would not be driving that afternoon to collect her. There was no time to organise anything. She had to get a taxi from the airport, a cost of 150 Euros, but at no time did she complain. It was a surreal situation. My neighbour went to the pharmacy and picked up hundreds of boxes of drugs and a set of crutches. Walking on these bloody things is more impossible than stilts and I fell over about 5 times trying to negotiate simple items, like the rug or a door.
My strict instructions were to rest my leg and put it up to help the swelling, sleeping was a nightmare with cushions balanced on the end of the bed, blankets wrapped around trying to cover all the bits that get freezing overnight when not covered. Difficult to do, with two dogs hogging the covers at the same time. However annoying my dibilitated state was, I was cooked for and waited on, driven around wherever I wanted to go for a whole week, and by week two I was walking on the cast without crutches. Five weeks down the line, cast is off and my Captain Hook impression is over. The French hospital staff were fantastic, the locals; people I hardly knew came from all directions offering assistance, gifting me groceries, organising and taking me to hospital appointments and generally making sure I had everything I needed.
I am a great believer that with every negative, it is possible to draw a positive. I had to look hard to find why I had been incapacitated in such a harsh environment, where it was necessary for me to be active and fit to manage just to stay warm at the least. It didn't take me long to find it. And what I found is that for two people who had drifted slightly apart found that they could again work together as a team and discover hidden treasures about each other that had been buried deep, coated in the armour created by a life not being richly lived and not following that heart path. I feel if you have a sound foundation it is better to work with what you have than to look elsewhere thinking that life will be more rewarding, because it won't.
I am glad I broke my leg, and you have to be me to understand why on earth I would say that.
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
17th December - Are any of us ready to live our dream?
Why the country indeed?
This morning I took a leisurely drive to an old Brocante, the French equivalent of the good old fashioned junk shop. A fool's pleasure, but sometimes an Aladdin's cave of handy stuff. The morning proved to be fruitful. On my drive home however, I had to stop in the the quiet road as I had disturbed a kestrel just having made a kill and she was feasting whilst resting on a fence post. I wish I had been on foot, as I would have proved less intrusive. She put up with my diesel engine and moved to a different post to feed and with one eye on me and another on her brunch she carried on. I had to move, but wish I could have stayed until she had finished. She insulted my clumsy carriage with an exit that would make the most colourful of aviators drool. She was lost to the acres of newly ploughed field and I offered a weak apology for my interuption. I hope she understood.
As always, my drive down the long winding hill towards home is a beautiful site and if done respectfully, one can take in the breadth of the beauty the valley has to offer. A few polite stone buildings set amongst a wealth of fields intermingled with forest, woods and a lake. It all lends itself to a site that never disappoints, and should be arrived upon slowly as the view is incredible. This trip took on a slightly new dimension, as 2 young fawns jumped out of the forest on my right into the trees on my left and disappeared. The boys (my dogs) thought I had taken on a new standard of communication as my voice reached a pitch only dolphins could understand, and I shouted to them that there were deer in the road and that they should both take a look. Of course they couldn't understand what I was saying with their paws over their ears, but the deer were away so quickly, the explanation was lost in a second. So, I revelled in the the site, and had not the slightest care of any 'traffic' behind me, the moment was too precious.
In this blog, I have written many times about the fight with the falling temperatures and the elements general, but to survive here you have to dig deep.
I might make it sound that I am suffering, but really it's all comparative. Yes, I could be in a modern house with modern facilities like central heating wandering around in t-shirt and jeans in mid winter complaining that the dustmen had left a margarine container lid in the road, or that there were cracks in the rendering of the wall opposite me. Instead I wear 8 layers every day, a hat, a scarf, thick walking socks and a padded gillet and am thrilled when I see the temperature gauge above 6 degrees when I get into the lounge in the morning.
As I look across the valley, the sunlight tickles the grass reflecting the dew and bouncing back a breath taking colour, the trees are beckoned by the incandescent setting ball of fire to stand proud and show off the jagged shapes that are leafless branches waiting silently and solemnly for Spring, and yet they don't understand the splendour of the long shadows shown on the ground so far beneath.
I ask myself, do I need a 29ft wide television, and a little silver box holding 4,000 channels, a £100 hair cut and colour or an item of stitched cotton and polyester mix with a minuscule particular badge which denotes I must pay 400 times what it cost to produce? No, I certainly don't. Each day is a brush with the very core of what each field and hedge and tree embellishes. The space in the sky is filled with great splendour. Those that surround me, have given me permission to be witness to their survival. The processed act of sleeping, waking and spending each day making sure that enough food is gathered, that procreation takes place and then after some sleep they get up the next day and do the same thing again.
The great tit, blue tit, black cap, coal tit, warblers, and more all now come and feast at my feeders. My selfish set up to encourage their company, hear their twitters and marvel in their actions. The crows still call in the dead of night and by day they fight off the several pairs of buzzards perusing their territory.
It's simple and yet I feel defined being part of it. Would I turn down a huge Domino's pizza if it were delivered at dinner time to my door? No, probably not, but I don't crave it. My life is now driven not by satiating a desire, it's driven by adopting a simple need and meeting it. I have relinquished the idea of surrounding and thus confusing my life full of items not required to sustain life and instead have worked to produce a balanced and happy individual.
Nature surrounds me, and nurtures me at the same time. I have deep respect for her prescence, and the affect she has on me and my surroundings. It is this which moves me to verbosity. If I cannot comprehend what is happening to my psyche, and live each day without this understanding passed onto me by my Mother, would I be just dead wood?
Though I suppose we are all simply dead wood. Eventually and simply compost, disappearing unnoticed and unmissed into the ground to feed another entity, to enable life in whatever form to commence again existing on what is left behind.
I'm OK with all of that, and long may she continue to take my breath away as she does every day.
This morning I took a leisurely drive to an old Brocante, the French equivalent of the good old fashioned junk shop. A fool's pleasure, but sometimes an Aladdin's cave of handy stuff. The morning proved to be fruitful. On my drive home however, I had to stop in the the quiet road as I had disturbed a kestrel just having made a kill and she was feasting whilst resting on a fence post. I wish I had been on foot, as I would have proved less intrusive. She put up with my diesel engine and moved to a different post to feed and with one eye on me and another on her brunch she carried on. I had to move, but wish I could have stayed until she had finished. She insulted my clumsy carriage with an exit that would make the most colourful of aviators drool. She was lost to the acres of newly ploughed field and I offered a weak apology for my interuption. I hope she understood.
As always, my drive down the long winding hill towards home is a beautiful site and if done respectfully, one can take in the breadth of the beauty the valley has to offer. A few polite stone buildings set amongst a wealth of fields intermingled with forest, woods and a lake. It all lends itself to a site that never disappoints, and should be arrived upon slowly as the view is incredible. This trip took on a slightly new dimension, as 2 young fawns jumped out of the forest on my right into the trees on my left and disappeared. The boys (my dogs) thought I had taken on a new standard of communication as my voice reached a pitch only dolphins could understand, and I shouted to them that there were deer in the road and that they should both take a look. Of course they couldn't understand what I was saying with their paws over their ears, but the deer were away so quickly, the explanation was lost in a second. So, I revelled in the the site, and had not the slightest care of any 'traffic' behind me, the moment was too precious.In this blog, I have written many times about the fight with the falling temperatures and the elements general, but to survive here you have to dig deep.
I might make it sound that I am suffering, but really it's all comparative. Yes, I could be in a modern house with modern facilities like central heating wandering around in t-shirt and jeans in mid winter complaining that the dustmen had left a margarine container lid in the road, or that there were cracks in the rendering of the wall opposite me. Instead I wear 8 layers every day, a hat, a scarf, thick walking socks and a padded gillet and am thrilled when I see the temperature gauge above 6 degrees when I get into the lounge in the morning.
As I look across the valley, the sunlight tickles the grass reflecting the dew and bouncing back a breath taking colour, the trees are beckoned by the incandescent setting ball of fire to stand proud and show off the jagged shapes that are leafless branches waiting silently and solemnly for Spring, and yet they don't understand the splendour of the long shadows shown on the ground so far beneath.
I ask myself, do I need a 29ft wide television, and a little silver box holding 4,000 channels, a £100 hair cut and colour or an item of stitched cotton and polyester mix with a minuscule particular badge which denotes I must pay 400 times what it cost to produce? No, I certainly don't. Each day is a brush with the very core of what each field and hedge and tree embellishes. The space in the sky is filled with great splendour. Those that surround me, have given me permission to be witness to their survival. The processed act of sleeping, waking and spending each day making sure that enough food is gathered, that procreation takes place and then after some sleep they get up the next day and do the same thing again.
The great tit, blue tit, black cap, coal tit, warblers, and more all now come and feast at my feeders. My selfish set up to encourage their company, hear their twitters and marvel in their actions. The crows still call in the dead of night and by day they fight off the several pairs of buzzards perusing their territory.
It's simple and yet I feel defined being part of it. Would I turn down a huge Domino's pizza if it were delivered at dinner time to my door? No, probably not, but I don't crave it. My life is now driven not by satiating a desire, it's driven by adopting a simple need and meeting it. I have relinquished the idea of surrounding and thus confusing my life full of items not required to sustain life and instead have worked to produce a balanced and happy individual.
Nature surrounds me, and nurtures me at the same time. I have deep respect for her prescence, and the affect she has on me and my surroundings. It is this which moves me to verbosity. If I cannot comprehend what is happening to my psyche, and live each day without this understanding passed onto me by my Mother, would I be just dead wood?
Though I suppose we are all simply dead wood. Eventually and simply compost, disappearing unnoticed and unmissed into the ground to feed another entity, to enable life in whatever form to commence again existing on what is left behind.
I'm OK with all of that, and long may she continue to take my breath away as she does every day.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
9th December - Of mice and mackeral
Last night I didn't wash up my dinner plate. My damp sheets beckoned and I just had to go to bed, casting aspersions to the idea of doing any household chores.
I should have learnt by now, I have already had an episode that I don't want repeated, but do I listen? No. It's not about being house proud, it's more about not providing and watering hole for the entire population of local mice to come and visit, chat a while with their friends about the day. Find out if the recession has affected the neighbours, all two million of them. Maybe even have a drink and bite to eat, compare who can flatten their skull to fit through the eye of a sewing needle the fastest. And, who hadn't turned up tonight because they had been invited out to a special lunch with the new Kestral family in town.
But provide a watering hole I did. The biggest mistake was to leave a 30mm long piece of bone from the mackerel which I had devoured earlier, on the plate. It must have caused a frenzy. It would appear that when mice get excited they leave a concentration of miniature brown tic tak like deposits. But these little critters aren't going to improve your breath if you ingest them, they are going to kill you.
The bones left on my plate were abandoned, 3ft from the original scene of the crime. My mind wandered onto the conversion that took place between the assailants. "Oi, look Terry, that looks like Mackeral bones, think we'll have some of that, geese us an 'and will you?" Heave, heave, heave. "Bloody 'ell, didn't think these would be this slippery, pull ya weight will you? Oh shit, QUICK, SCARPER someone's coming!"
And shit they did.
I have never been a fan of bleach, indeed the bottle that I owned in my last house would have probably fetched a fortune on that well known auction site, being a collector's piece and all. But now, I use it like a woman possessed.
I never really liked tic taks much.
I should have learnt by now, I have already had an episode that I don't want repeated, but do I listen? No. It's not about being house proud, it's more about not providing and watering hole for the entire population of local mice to come and visit, chat a while with their friends about the day. Find out if the recession has affected the neighbours, all two million of them. Maybe even have a drink and bite to eat, compare who can flatten their skull to fit through the eye of a sewing needle the fastest. And, who hadn't turned up tonight because they had been invited out to a special lunch with the new Kestral family in town.
But provide a watering hole I did. The biggest mistake was to leave a 30mm long piece of bone from the mackerel which I had devoured earlier, on the plate. It must have caused a frenzy. It would appear that when mice get excited they leave a concentration of miniature brown tic tak like deposits. But these little critters aren't going to improve your breath if you ingest them, they are going to kill you.
The bones left on my plate were abandoned, 3ft from the original scene of the crime. My mind wandered onto the conversion that took place between the assailants. "Oi, look Terry, that looks like Mackeral bones, think we'll have some of that, geese us an 'and will you?" Heave, heave, heave. "Bloody 'ell, didn't think these would be this slippery, pull ya weight will you? Oh shit, QUICK, SCARPER someone's coming!"
And shit they did.
I have never been a fan of bleach, indeed the bottle that I owned in my last house would have probably fetched a fortune on that well known auction site, being a collector's piece and all. But now, I use it like a woman possessed.
I never really liked tic taks much.
8th December - Ice is nice, but I prefer it with a gin and tonic
WTF? 
Loosely translated WTF means, what on earth? This little micro climate that is
La Chapelle Janson has me baffled. One minute you are sheltering from the rain the next, you are falling arse over tit on the ice on the path. I have gone to bed in horizontal rain to wake up to ice as far as I can see, then gone to bed freezing and wishing I had never been born being awoken by those little pebbles on top of the caravan. You know the ones where the rain drops carry small stones in their back packs.
Last night it was fairly cold, nothing more than you would expect. But as the night pushed itself up the hill of the next day, I could feel La Chapelle work its magic. The pillows start to become ice sheets and then someone starts to tighten the vice on my head, the cold bites and I contemplate suffocating under my quilt rather than be frozen to death with a pointless expression on my face. In the morning, after my taser shot, I enabled myself out of bed to what could only be described as an ice curtain. My work clothes where were I had left them, stood up by themselves in my shape. Whilst I pulled on my attire, I noticed that the door handle was glistening. Upon closer inspection I realised that the enitre door frame was covered in ice.
When one lives their dream, I always thought that one would prance around as if you had just won a contract with Colgate, just because you have a permanent smile on your face. Not so. You take what the univserse throws at you and you laugh, it's the only approriate response. One makes their bed and they had better lie in it. Though I challenge anyone to try my bed, I think you would rather sleep in the trees.
Loosely translated WTF means, what on earth? This little micro climate that is La Chapelle Janson has me baffled. One minute you are sheltering from the rain the next, you are falling arse over tit on the ice on the path. I have gone to bed in horizontal rain to wake up to ice as far as I can see, then gone to bed freezing and wishing I had never been born being awoken by those little pebbles on top of the caravan. You know the ones where the rain drops carry small stones in their back packs.
Last night it was fairly cold, nothing more than you would expect. But as the night pushed itself up the hill of the next day, I could feel La Chapelle work its magic. The pillows start to become ice sheets and then someone starts to tighten the vice on my head, the cold bites and I contemplate suffocating under my quilt rather than be frozen to death with a pointless expression on my face. In the morning, after my taser shot, I enabled myself out of bed to what could only be described as an ice curtain. My work clothes where were I had left them, stood up by themselves in my shape. Whilst I pulled on my attire, I noticed that the door handle was glistening. Upon closer inspection I realised that the enitre door frame was covered in ice.
When one lives their dream, I always thought that one would prance around as if you had just won a contract with Colgate, just because you have a permanent smile on your face. Not so. You take what the univserse throws at you and you laugh, it's the only approriate response. One makes their bed and they had better lie in it. Though I challenge anyone to try my bed, I think you would rather sleep in the trees.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
29th November - Sardines can be dangerous
Last night whilst preparing my feast for dinner, as a geture towards energy saving ideas I warmed my tin of sardines on the log burner. I forgot what I was doing, and wondered what the piercing & rasping sound was. I turned to the fireplace. There were 3 foot flames shooting into the air, the oil from the sardines had bubbled over and caught alight in a most victorious fashion. The boys, sensibly had high tailed it, and of course, my automatic reaction was to run around screaming and swearing. I was desperate not to burn the house down and so I had to carefully retrieved them using the old poker from the fire.
Moral of the story?
I really need to buy myself heat proof gloves.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
25th November - So, how warm is WARM?
A friend signed off an e-mail hoping I was 'keeping warm.'
Warm? It’s bloody tropical mate! 9C in the lounge this morning, and it got up to as much as 10C. My blood is so sodding thick now, that I have to shoot myself with a taser gun in the morning, just to get moving and up from bed.
Can’t wait for visitors. If you want chocolate biscuits, you have to smash them with a hammer and eat them in small parts, else you break your teeth.
I am going to break out into song in a minute, I am so looking forward to another night in the caravan. 'What now?' I always think.
Just conveniently the wind just started up again at about 6pm tonight, after a beautiful day, it’s now gale force again. I am banging on saucepan lids to dull out the noise, it’s just too scary. It’s a 50 metre dash every night from the house to the caravan and quite frankly anything could happen.
The wind cuts like a knife. This time I am going to try two log burners, one down each leg of my jeans to keep warm and see if that saves on the electricity bill of charging my gun.
Shall I let you know how my plan works?
Warm? It’s bloody tropical mate! 9C in the lounge this morning, and it got up to as much as 10C. My blood is so sodding thick now, that I have to shoot myself with a taser gun in the morning, just to get moving and up from bed.
Can’t wait for visitors. If you want chocolate biscuits, you have to smash them with a hammer and eat them in small parts, else you break your teeth.
I am going to break out into song in a minute, I am so looking forward to another night in the caravan. 'What now?' I always think.
Just conveniently the wind just started up again at about 6pm tonight, after a beautiful day, it’s now gale force again. I am banging on saucepan lids to dull out the noise, it’s just too scary. It’s a 50 metre dash every night from the house to the caravan and quite frankly anything could happen.
The wind cuts like a knife. This time I am going to try two log burners, one down each leg of my jeans to keep warm and see if that saves on the electricity bill of charging my gun.
Shall I let you know how my plan works?
24th November - Hide the dog biscuits
I spent last night in the house as the wind was so veracious. Sleep is quite difficult in the caravan especially when the raindrops carry rocks in their rucksacks.
So, for the first time I settled down on a luxurious single mattress, all camping style by the fire with a DVD. I was on cloud nine, thought life couldn’t get better. Had come to terms with the spider issue, as I had only seen the one since being back here so I thought it would be a chill out. And God, the wind was a blowing, I thought I had it made. I finally dropped off to sleep after 1am. No worries.
I awoke sharply, at 3.45am by a rustling, I had a lamp left on (for emergencies and because I am a chicken in the dark) my sight was set in the corner where the dog biscuits were in one of those stiff plastic bags. Bach (the dog) sat bolt upright and stared at the same place. It was a mouse, working his way up the bag, about to dive into the open corner.
I have found that mice respond fairly promptly to harsh language.
I believe it's a conspiracy and a test. I must pay a penance for previously living in a house with laminate flooring and central heating.
Next update: How to survive in a stampede of Normandy cows. Well, that's all that's left isn't it?!
I can't catch mice.
So, for the first time I settled down on a luxurious single mattress, all camping style by the fire with a DVD. I was on cloud nine, thought life couldn’t get better. Had come to terms with the spider issue, as I had only seen the one since being back here so I thought it would be a chill out. And God, the wind was a blowing, I thought I had it made. I finally dropped off to sleep after 1am. No worries.
I awoke sharply, at 3.45am by a rustling, I had a lamp left on (for emergencies and because I am a chicken in the dark) my sight was set in the corner where the dog biscuits were in one of those stiff plastic bags. Bach (the dog) sat bolt upright and stared at the same place. It was a mouse, working his way up the bag, about to dive into the open corner.
I have found that mice respond fairly promptly to harsh language.
I believe it's a conspiracy and a test. I must pay a penance for previously living in a house with laminate flooring and central heating.
Next update: How to survive in a stampede of Normandy cows. Well, that's all that's left isn't it?!
I can't catch mice.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
18th November - Routine and risk
One of the routines that has to be performed when returning to this house after being away for a while is clearing the spiders' webs. My sister has done this for the last 3 years and I only witnessed the circus act when coming back after a short break in October. When the front door was opened it was clear that the little critters had had a field day. And, these aren't your usual tiny little inconspicuous variety, that you might actually think 'ahh, how cute'. Oh no, these buggers have fangs and legs that look like they body build four hours a day, every day. Out comes the hoover, and each beam has to be meticulously cleaned, as that unspoken fear of one crawling over you at night was too much to bear.
For the 3 years that Kate (my sister) has stayed here, she has braved this risk and has not befallen to any encounters. She wasn't too pleased about the mice running around and munching on fallen crumbs, and didn't complain much about the Barn Owl in the chimney. But the spiders, no, as much had to be done to avoid the danger.
Now, I am OK with most things. I don't freak at mice, rats, snakes, even boring conversations but in the case of spiders I really can't control myself. The thought of one crawling on me especially of this size just makes me want to pee my pants. It's the reason I can't sleep in the house until the renovation is done, I can't sleep knowing they could be eyeing me up planning their attack. And the way they move? Oh god it's repulsive.
The nights have drawn in now, it's damp and it's not conducive to high output in the form of work. So to console myself, last night I partook in a few glasses of wine and a DVD, the wood burner was finally kicking out some heat and the boys weren't shaking with the cold, which made me feel good. Then I spotted my trouser leg moving. I knew that the wine wasn't that strong and I wasn't moving my leg myself, it must be a foreigner. Wondering became reality and I was up and out of the chair like someone had stamped my arse with a red hot poker. My new Spiderfriend launched into the air and landed in a dark spot. It wasn't possible to leave it, the thought was unconscionable, what if he followed me to the supermarket? This is the thing with paranoia and phobia, there are rules and they must be adhered to. It had to go.
But then remorse set in. He didn't move like the others, he was covered in dust and fluff and didn't seem to tear across the floor braking land speed records as they do. Maybe he was dying? Grabbing the torch and shoving furniture all about I found him and gathered him up carefully in a jar big enough to get all of his muscle bound legs in, and observed him. I never would have done this before, and would have normally jumped up and down like a banshee hoping that someone would come to my aid. But this time, because there was no one to help, no one who would hear me scream I behaved actually quite dolefully.
He was placed outside in the grass, and I talked him through the whole process. Of course, at arms length.
It didn't stop me from taking off all my clothes turning them inside out, shaking and checking them, before putting them back on. Checking the chair, removing the cushions, and looking all around in case he was the first of the whole army.
I settled back down to my film, wondering if maybe, just maybe that myself and these French creepies could co-exist. Just don't ask me to sleep with one in my caravan though. That's just too much!
For the 3 years that Kate (my sister) has stayed here, she has braved this risk and has not befallen to any encounters. She wasn't too pleased about the mice running around and munching on fallen crumbs, and didn't complain much about the Barn Owl in the chimney. But the spiders, no, as much had to be done to avoid the danger.
Now, I am OK with most things. I don't freak at mice, rats, snakes, even boring conversations but in the case of spiders I really can't control myself. The thought of one crawling on me especially of this size just makes me want to pee my pants. It's the reason I can't sleep in the house until the renovation is done, I can't sleep knowing they could be eyeing me up planning their attack. And the way they move? Oh god it's repulsive.
The nights have drawn in now, it's damp and it's not conducive to high output in the form of work. So to console myself, last night I partook in a few glasses of wine and a DVD, the wood burner was finally kicking out some heat and the boys weren't shaking with the cold, which made me feel good. Then I spotted my trouser leg moving. I knew that the wine wasn't that strong and I wasn't moving my leg myself, it must be a foreigner. Wondering became reality and I was up and out of the chair like someone had stamped my arse with a red hot poker. My new Spiderfriend launched into the air and landed in a dark spot. It wasn't possible to leave it, the thought was unconscionable, what if he followed me to the supermarket? This is the thing with paranoia and phobia, there are rules and they must be adhered to. It had to go.
But then remorse set in. He didn't move like the others, he was covered in dust and fluff and didn't seem to tear across the floor braking land speed records as they do. Maybe he was dying? Grabbing the torch and shoving furniture all about I found him and gathered him up carefully in a jar big enough to get all of his muscle bound legs in, and observed him. I never would have done this before, and would have normally jumped up and down like a banshee hoping that someone would come to my aid. But this time, because there was no one to help, no one who would hear me scream I behaved actually quite dolefully.
He was placed outside in the grass, and I talked him through the whole process. Of course, at arms length.
It didn't stop me from taking off all my clothes turning them inside out, shaking and checking them, before putting them back on. Checking the chair, removing the cushions, and looking all around in case he was the first of the whole army.
I settled back down to my film, wondering if maybe, just maybe that myself and these French creepies could co-exist. Just don't ask me to sleep with one in my caravan though. That's just too much!
Monday, November 17, 2008
9th November - Sundays; For rest and relaxation, not for fighting the elements
Yesterday was a day from paradise. It was beautiful and sunny and I actually managed to mow the lawns. Ever heard of calm before the storm? I should have known.
My sister went back to the UK on Thursday and I have been trying to find my rhythm. I haven't lived on my own since I was 29, that's nearly 10 years, and even then it was for only 3 months. I used to mow the lawns for my parents when I was a young teenager, it was my solace, my way of escaping from my head. So I went back in time to try to console myself from this solitude. I was scared.
Today, Sunday, was a different story, the rain set in but I was secretly pleased with myself for anticipating this and finishing my mowing. The wind got up, as it does on these hills. It whips through the valley and across the fields, once sheltered by several oak trees the farmer cut down. It's probably the wood that I am burning now to keep warm. I have a short journey to get to my caravan which is lit by torch or by the moonlight. There was certainly no moonlight tonight, just rain, travelling sideways. I had stayed indoors until very late, not wanting to go out but the need for sleep caught up with me and I decided to give in. The boys, (my two dogs) just weren't interested in going from what seems to them a warm haven to this madness outside. I willed them, and we ran to the caravan and shut the door. The noise was incredible, the rain sounded like small pebbles hitting the roof and the cable for my electricity slapped the roof with abandon like a jockey slapping the hind of his winning steed. Sleep was impossible with all the ruckus, I consoled myself with a DVD on my laptop in an effort to ignore what was going on inside.
3am came and I had still not slept, for the last hour the wind had really gained momentum, and the shell of my caravan was whining. I was actually terrified, I imagined all sorts of objects flying in through the windows; slates, sheet metal, wooden panelling. I was considering going back into the house when I heard a thwack, my awning started to slap against the side of the caravan. The poles were thrashing and hitting the windows and the flaps rucking and beating against themselves in the gusts of hurricane conditions. There was no other choice, I had to go out and see what was going on. In just my t-shirt, underwear and work boots I had the torch in one hand and my head in the other. The whole awning, although still attached to the caravan, was thrashing around as though Mother Nature was eating it up and spitting it out. I had a picnic table, and some picnic chairs with various items on and some boxes from the van that I still hadn't unpacked yet. The whole lot was turned upside down, I had no idea what had blown away. Fortunately I had an outside light, which I put on and grabbed of the awning what I could the stop the whole lot from sailing off into the distant black fields. I held onto to one corner which made matters worse and rest bulged and raised up throwing the poles into all directions I could see one had snapped and this made them lethal weapons which I had to dodge. There was only one thing for it. Put the dishwasher on the lose flaps and hope for the best.
I hadn't found a home for my dishwasher yet. So it was sitting tidily outside the caravan, covered with a piece of carpet. I hadn't moved it because it was heavy, and at the time I couldn't be arsed. Tonight, I had to lift it, there was no choice. I managed to pin down the two front flaps with my foot and I picked the dishwasher up and plonked it on the join. It seemed to do the trick. I settled the poles down and the rest I looked at and laughed, there was nothing much I could do but hope that it would stay there until morning, well, daylight. I returned into the dry, my dogs were bothered by the rush of wind as I opened the door and with my frozen legs and hair up on end I tried to settle down. The wind died about half an hour after I challenged her. Respite, I could finally sleep.
My sister went back to the UK on Thursday and I have been trying to find my rhythm. I haven't lived on my own since I was 29, that's nearly 10 years, and even then it was for only 3 months. I used to mow the lawns for my parents when I was a young teenager, it was my solace, my way of escaping from my head. So I went back in time to try to console myself from this solitude. I was scared.
Today, Sunday, was a different story, the rain set in but I was secretly pleased with myself for anticipating this and finishing my mowing. The wind got up, as it does on these hills. It whips through the valley and across the fields, once sheltered by several oak trees the farmer cut down. It's probably the wood that I am burning now to keep warm. I have a short journey to get to my caravan which is lit by torch or by the moonlight. There was certainly no moonlight tonight, just rain, travelling sideways. I had stayed indoors until very late, not wanting to go out but the need for sleep caught up with me and I decided to give in. The boys, (my two dogs) just weren't interested in going from what seems to them a warm haven to this madness outside. I willed them, and we ran to the caravan and shut the door. The noise was incredible, the rain sounded like small pebbles hitting the roof and the cable for my electricity slapped the roof with abandon like a jockey slapping the hind of his winning steed. Sleep was impossible with all the ruckus, I consoled myself with a DVD on my laptop in an effort to ignore what was going on inside.
3am came and I had still not slept, for the last hour the wind had really gained momentum, and the shell of my caravan was whining. I was actually terrified, I imagined all sorts of objects flying in through the windows; slates, sheet metal, wooden panelling. I was considering going back into the house when I heard a thwack, my awning started to slap against the side of the caravan. The poles were thrashing and hitting the windows and the flaps rucking and beating against themselves in the gusts of hurricane conditions. There was no other choice, I had to go out and see what was going on. In just my t-shirt, underwear and work boots I had the torch in one hand and my head in the other. The whole awning, although still attached to the caravan, was thrashing around as though Mother Nature was eating it up and spitting it out. I had a picnic table, and some picnic chairs with various items on and some boxes from the van that I still hadn't unpacked yet. The whole lot was turned upside down, I had no idea what had blown away. Fortunately I had an outside light, which I put on and grabbed of the awning what I could the stop the whole lot from sailing off into the distant black fields. I held onto to one corner which made matters worse and rest bulged and raised up throwing the poles into all directions I could see one had snapped and this made them lethal weapons which I had to dodge. There was only one thing for it. Put the dishwasher on the lose flaps and hope for the best.
I hadn't found a home for my dishwasher yet. So it was sitting tidily outside the caravan, covered with a piece of carpet. I hadn't moved it because it was heavy, and at the time I couldn't be arsed. Tonight, I had to lift it, there was no choice. I managed to pin down the two front flaps with my foot and I picked the dishwasher up and plonked it on the join. It seemed to do the trick. I settled the poles down and the rest I looked at and laughed, there was nothing much I could do but hope that it would stay there until morning, well, daylight. I returned into the dry, my dogs were bothered by the rush of wind as I opened the door and with my frozen legs and hair up on end I tried to settle down. The wind died about half an hour after I challenged her. Respite, I could finally sleep.
29th October - Snow hits La Chappelle
All night long I was kept awake by horizontal rain and wind shaking the very bones of my caravan. My mornings are spent checking the damage done overnight, the wind whips across these hills and takes no prisoners as it passes. I must have drifted off to sleep at some point in the early hours, and when I awoke there was silence.A quick glance out of the window and I could see white fluff building on the ledge. I bolted out of bed and ran around outside like a dizzy school girl. The dogs hadn't seen snow for a long time and weren't sure that they wanted to again. I dashed inside the house to tell my sister and woke her up. We made for the thermometer; 5 degrees inside! This is a picture of the main cottage. Notice the lack of ridge tiles on the roof. This is a work in progress, but snow stopped play!
A few images caught by myself.
The last picture here is of the lane down to farm buildings and other old cottages where our French neighbours relish the tranquility and often lots of solitude.
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