Enjoy the sun - snows coming!

The two boyz spent much of yesterday afternoon sound asleep on the terrace. After lunch Wilf sauntered out of the kitchen door and slumped down onto his spot by the wall while Digby settled next to him - canine happiness , carefree slumbering while soaking up the winter sun. They had better make the most of it - the weather is set to get cold. From 18 degrees yesterday a sudden cold snap taking us to -7 and accompanied by heavy snow is forecast for Monday.

We drove all over the area yesterday morning looking for a Christmas tree - but to no avail. They had all gone. The garden centres were empty, the florists stripped bare. There were two or three straggly ones left in the supermarket forecourt but they were the sort of trees with all the branches concentrated at the bottom that no one will ever buy . Faced with the possibility of a Christmas without a tree 'the font' asked one of the check out staff if she knew where at this late stage we might be able to buy a decent looking one . The young lady promptly disappeared only to reappear a few moments later with a large brown box, prominently marked 'made in PRC ' and with a picture of a luxuriant fir glued to the front. An 8 foot tall artificial tree. We've never had an artificial tree before but beggars can't be chosers and from the picture on the box no one should ever be able to tell the difference.

Assembling the tree was easy. After five minutes of joint effort, we had a handsome 8 foot tall douglas fir look alike rising proud on the terrace ready to be decorated. We stood back contentedly to look at our creation. The reason we've never bought an artificial tree soon became apparent. The trunk was made of eau de nil coloured artificial fur while the foliage that adorned its wire branches glistened bright blue in the afternoon sunlight. Lesson - beware shop assistants selling you the last remaining Christmas tree from stock. I'm off with the boyz in the SUV this morning to see what we can find in deepest France profonde. Anything has to be an improvement over the Nanjing State Fir Tree Factory product.

Slumbers and yearning.

Yesterday it became apparent to us that the two playful pups who have been our companions for the last eight and a half years have made that gentle transition to senior dog status. It was a beautiful sunny day and after lunch on the terrace we decided that a walk in the fresh air was in order. There was a time not so long ago when Wilf and Digby would have been howling with delight at the thought of a new adventure but now they are happy to slumber in the warm winter sun. We left them alone and returned forty five minutes later to find the unchanged scene in the photos above.

Out for dinner with a rather successful American authoress who has just lost her husband of thirty years. In the circumstances told to be at my wittiest and most upbeat . All those difficult decisions now come cascading down around her , the whether's of life. Whether to leave the house that holds so many memories, whether to return to a US that has changed profoundly, whether to try to make new friends and risk losing old ones. And through it all that occasional look in her eyes that yearned that things could be as they had been. Many years ago, before anti-depressants, my mother used to tell the recently bereaved that it took eight seasons to recover from grief. How true those old Scots aphorisms are. Time as the great healer.

Any ideas?

If you had any lingering doubts about the impact of global warming they would have been dispelled by yesterdays trip to Zurich. Expecting frigid conditions I had dressed as if going to the arctic only to be met by bright sunshine, roses still in bloom and a cloudless blue sky. No sign of snow anywhere. On the way back I changed planes in Frankfurt. At one point in the connecting flight I could look out of the window and see the whole of Switzerland from Lake Constance in the north to the Italian frontier, stretching out ahead. It was quite simply magical to see the Eiger,Matterhorn and Jungfrau bathed in the late afternoon sun.

'The font' has been busy in my absence. In a recent tour of the garden we noticed that we had 30 or so large asiatic caterpillar nests at the top of one of the old, tall pine trees. In the spring these nests are warmed by the sun and hundreds of these alien bugs literally burst into life and march en masse down the trunk to the nearest feeding ground. Two years ago, when we were still in Italy, I found Wilf contentedly,but determinedly, nose down , exploring a procession of five or six hundred of these little critters moving as one across the grass. What neither Wilf nor I knew was that when disturbed they throw of millions of tiny irritant hairs that itch like mad and make the tongue and eyes swell up. Wilf was soon in pain, my skin was turning bright red, and unsure of what to do I called our vet who said the only way of keeping Wilf's tongue from swelling up and choking him was to immediately get the hosepipe, turn it one full, and literally flood out his mouth and nose to remove the irritants. Then a litre of water and bicarbonate of soda had to be forced down his throat - an experience neither 'the font', Wilf, nor I enjoyed and certainly never wish to repeat. If we'd left it even a few minutes later to treat him he would have lost his tongue and probably worse. As it was we had to give him his water by syringe for ten days after.

We now know what to look out for and 'the font' not surprisingly wants the nests removed. The original idea was to have a man from the local forestry commission come and shoot out the nests ( this is after all France where in return for sky high taxes there is a government department for every eventuality ). Having mulled it over we realised that the impact of the bullets would simply blow the pupae in every direction, 'the font' now wants Rentokil to come with a hoist and physically remove them. A long, difficult and very expensive process at the top of a 30 metre tree. I'm of the opinion that there must be other options. I seem to remember a friend in Australia saying that they bought a system that wrapped around the trunk and caught and trapped the blighters on the way down. Any ideas from those of you who live in exotic climes?

Zurich for the night. Snow !

Off to Zurich to do some Christmas shopping. Back tomorrow - will post pictures of snow when I can .

Pizza, Digby's joints, courage.

'The font' is in London today having set off for the airport at the unearthly hour of four thirty. Wilf and Digby who were snuggled down in their baskets decided to ignore the intrusive early morning activity and get on with their beauty sleep. Belatedly recognizing 'the fonts' absence the two of them have been positioned by the front door since seven o'clock. Half of their sheepdog DNA is set to guarding the house while the other half is on alert for signs of 'the fonts' homecoming. Getting Wilf out for a walk while Digby stayed inside to rest his joints proved impossible. In the end I took them both out on their harnesses, doubled back to the house after five minutes, opened the front door to let Digby in, and then callously closed it so that Wilf could have twenty minutes of exercise. Digby was so shocked by the rudeness of being left alone that he didn't bark once.

To finish off yesterdays post. The pizzas we chose at the village Christmas fair were the blandest I could find - cheese and ham. Madame Bay was very keen for us to try a 'Tex Mex' ( chicken, 'hot'red peppers, tabisco,sausage, pineapple) and seemed rather disappointed at the mundanity of our choice - I fear that we gained a negative score on the village sophistication rating. The unspoken hint was that we clearly need to get out more. I'd hoped that the pizzas might have been served by the slice but the suggestion only elicited a blank response from Madame Bay. When they arrived , served by Monsieur Bay in his role as maitre d' , they were dinner plate in size, surrounded by a large quiche like crust, and so hot that the surface of the cheese was gurgling away with myriad mini-volcanoes.It quickly became apparent that somewhere along the line the recipe for pizza and quiche had become confused- the wonders set before us had a thick shortcrust pastry base,the creamy ham and cheese topping from a quiche,but the whole enlivened by copious quantities of extra lard and butter. I suggested to 'the font' that we had discovered a new delicacy - Quizza but after three mouthfuls 'the font' felt that Bloat might be a better word to describe this culinary marvel. By the time it had been washed down with a heart little Gaillac,recommended by the maitre d', we were both feeeling rather the worse for wear - our digestive systems assailed by this wall of piping hot cholesterol.Saturday night was not restful for either of us.

Sometimes through the anonymity of the blog some peoples strength of purpose and courage come shining through. So for the author of http://www.romp-roll-rockies.blogspot.com/ just a heads up that we're thinking of you today.

Words fail me.

So, yesterday was the day of the village Christmas fair. Wilf and Digby were left at the front door to sit in the sun and guard the house while we walked the twenty or so yards across the lane and through the churchyard to the village hall or 'salle polyvalent'. The posters clearly stated the affair was due to start at two but experience of living in southern Europe has taught us to take notional start times with a very large pinch of salt. After allowing for what we thought was a suitable two hour delay we arrived at four to find a scene of unbridled chaos. There were six or seven ladies dressed in skimpy red Santa outfits running aimlessly around, the stalls were still in the process of being set up, the mayor had hurt his hand putting up the creche and was having it bandaged by a red cross lady, a mother with a young baby was slumped in a plastic chair by the entrance door breast feeding ,and loud metallic crashes were emanating from the kitchen. Pure,unadulterated bedlam.

We executed a rapid exit from the unfolding maelstrom and returned home to allow another three hours for the fair to get into the swing of things,returning after a glass or two of wine at seven. I should state for the record that 'the font' promised that we wouldn't have to stay more than ten minutes and that all I had to do was buy three things from the stalls and be polite - not charming just polite. How the best laid plans....

What a difference the three hours made. There were crowds swarming around the churchyard when we came back and the square had developed a parking problem. No sooner had we walked through the door than Madame Bay emerged from the throng to greet us. She approached arms spread wide, like a brightly coloured Spanish galleon in full sail, imperiously pushing visitors,Santa's little helpers, stall holders and small children aside. Immediately everyone in the village knew from the greeting that we were the new residents and that Madame Bay was our chatelaine. 'Ah! M'ongoose,Bonsoir,M'ongoose' was the last I heard before being enveloped in yards of velvet and chiffon and smothered in Lily of the Valley. Madame Bay as you may remember was in charge of what we thought was the bakery stall. As it transpired she had a much more vaunted task and was in charge of the restaurant, or 'restaur' as the sign above the door said, Monsieur Bay having managed to lose the last three letters en route from home. 'Have you eaten Monsieur Ongoose, have you eaten ?'. Before I could answer , we were swept through the hall, arm in arm with Madame Bay to the restaur ,seated at a rather precariously put together trestle table and handed a sheet of paper grandly headed 'menu'.

Madame Bay and her village helpers have discovered pizza. However, nothing, but nothing in life could prepare you for one of Madame Bays Christmas interpretations. As I scanned the list of toppings my eye first came to rest on a creation called Sea Medley which consisted of 'prawns,prunes,chopped beef'. In a state of mounting shock and horror I read on - The Gascon : 'fried egg,pork sausage,4 local cheeses,anchovies,chicken'.

Tomorrow, I shall attempt to describe what we ate,post a copy of the menu for an unbelieving world, reveal what we bought ,and relive, as far as I can, the 'entertainment' . More than that I shall try to understood how the French have managed to convince us all that they are somehow more sophisticated.

The village Christmas fair.

A beautiful clear blue sky greeted me when I flung open the curtains this morning - a wonderful start to the day and quite a change from yesterdays drizzle. Over breakfast I suggested to 'the font' that we make the most of the fine weather and go into the centre of Toulouse for some sightseeing and a spot of lunch. Simply impossible. I was reminded that today is the day of the village Christmas fair and that Madame Bay is organizing the bakery stall. Gentle readers you may well wonder , as I do, how a village that boasts eight houses, a speed bump, a war memorial, two cows, a church, and ten street lamps can hold a Christmas fair. You might be even more puzzled to learn that it starts at at lunchtime and is planned to finish at ten this evening. Just how long can it take Madame Bay to unload her heavily armagnac laced tarte tatins and apple clafoutis? Apart from Madame Bay with her bakery stall what else could be competing for our attention between lunch and the evening hours? A full update will be provided tomorrow together with pictures. I somehow have the feeling that alcohol is going to be involved although sadly not the bottle of St.Estephe I had planned to savour over lunch in the Cafe de l'Opera in Toulouse.

Digby's joints are still giving him grief . 'The font' managed to entice him into the kitchen with the promise of a piece of croissant while Wilf was quickly harnessed up and taken out of the front door by me for a long walk. Oh the duplicity one learns as dog owners ! It didn't take Digby long to discover that his brother had absconded with me and the yaps of frustration could be heard following us down the road. He is now sulking on his bed in the kitchen, back turned as a sign of his extreme displeasure. Wilf is just happy.