For goodness’ sake, what a year! Attempts at recalling it
are too painful for many, while others couldn’t wait to see the back of it.
Here are some of the events that marked our topsy turvy year.
January
You may remember me telling you about our annual
multi-village carol concert. It’s held in January. Weird, I know, but there is a
logic to the timing. Camille, our friend and her chums from other parishes,
were in charge.
The idea of the concerts is for villagers to start at their
local church and then hop into cars and drive to the next one. The same for
singers. When the final venue is reached there exists the potential for a
substantial gathering, many choristers and much confusion.
A couple of years ago, Camille had inveigled me into singing,
and much to his horror I had volunteered Jack, my grumpy husband. We were now
classed as regulars. The day of the concert came and, as usual, nothing at all
went to plan. Here’s what happened when our shambolic choir plus add-ons
arrived at the final venue.
The lofty church was already packed. A little croaky having
sung for the best part of an hour, we sallied forth in a least two keys,
eventually arriving at more or less the same one by verse three.
The next carol was announced as number eight on the church
song sheet. This was unfortunate since we didn’t have a number eight, or a
church song sheet. But we did know the tune, or so we thought.
We burbled vaguely until a spare sheet was found and passed
along by the sopranos. There were lots of verses. By the final one, we felt
we’d nailed it. Jack, now in top form, belted out one of his high notes. Out it
rang, quite marvellous, completely wrong. It seemed the last verse was sung a
little differently. No matter, his efforts were much appreciated.
Our Christmas carol concerts were over for another year. It
had been another wonderfully eccentric event, a feature of country living here.
February
There was something wrong with Max, one of our Australian
Shepherd dogs. Not unusual in his case as he is ridiculously accident-prone,
but this had come out of the blue.
Looking dreadfully stiff, Max gave me a smiley lick, but it
wasn’t his usual standing ovation-type welcome. He looked strained. I moved to
his other side and encouraged him to rotate right. No. Not possible, his back
was rigid. He winced.
Trying his best to please, Max manoeuvred like a freighter,
shuffling in a slow sweeping motion. It was pitiful to watch. There was no
doubting it a trip to Docteur Alice,
the bone doc, was needed.
I had been initially sceptical about animal osteopaths, but
having seen Max’s transformation after our first visit, I was instantly
converted.
Once again, Docteur
Alice knelt and put her arms around Max, her countenance almost hypnotic. Max
stood like a wounded hero, nobly succumbing to her gentle manipulations. No yelps,
no whining – unusual for him. After a while, she smiled.
“I know where the problems are.”
She continued, quietly working her way along Max’s chest,
stomach and then spine. She released him.
“That’s it. He will be fine now.”
Max padded towards me. I motioned for him to make that right
turn. Easy. He moved flexibly, completely relaxed.
“That’s fantastic, Docteur
Alice, thank you! Do I give Max the anti-inflammatory medication from the vet?
I have some at home.”
“No, nothing. Make sure he has 48 hours rest, though, his
body will be fatigued after this treatment. Max is a high energy dog, so you
may need to come back every three months. I have a feeling he will be ready for
another session by then.”
He was.
March and April
The news had broken way back in January. Conspiracy
theorists were abuzz with conjecture the world over. The much-discussed
COVID-19 virus was present and making insidious progress through France. Drastic
action had to be taken. The country went into lockdown.
In the reported words of Le
Parisien, one of the largest, most respected newspapers in the country:
‘The measure is completely
unprecedented in the history of France. The country had never asked its
citizens to confine themselves to their homes all day long, as has been the
case since Tuesday, March 17 at noon to curb the expansion of the Coronavirus
pandemic.’ (Translation.)
Our first lockdown remained in
place until mid-May. Terms like: clusters, contamination rates and virus
hotspots were introduced, and are now commonplace as is new terminology such as
the R number.
During the early part of confinement, I was trying to get used to
the rules like everyone else. This included completing an authorisation form if
I wanted to go shopping. You might remember me telling you about one of my
early grocery visits.
Jack, wrinkled his brow as I was
leaving. He was convinced I had forgotten something.
“Completed form?”
“Check.”
“Mask?”
“Check.”
“Gloves?”
“Check.”
“Alcohol?”
“Jack, I don’t need Dutch courage. I’m just going to the
supermarket.”
“For your hands!”
“Oh, right! Check, I have that sanitising gel stuff I use
after cleaning up the animals.”
“List?”
“Argh! I knew I’d forgotten something!”
Inside the supermarket, things had changed. Strips of tape were
on the floor next to counters, check-outs and fresh food cabinets. All designed
to encourage social distancing, all very helpful. My first port of call was the
cheese section.
Forget toilet rolls, if there were a shortage of one product
guaranteed to cause mass hysteria here, it would be cheese. Fortunately, that
wasn’t the case. I chatted to our lovely fromage
lady who was stacking creamy beauties. Even a mask couldn’t shroud that
everlasting smile of hers.
I headed over to the butcher, stood the obligatory metre
from the counter and bellowed through my mask. This was an evident challenge
for monsieur, but he listened
carefully.
“And your mushrooms, madame?”
“No, minced beef, please.”
“But what about your mushrooms?”
“Honestly, I don’t want any, thank you. Just the minced
beef.”
“The mushrooms in your forest, madame. Are they growing yet?”
“Oh! I’m so sorry. No, nothing at the moment, I’m afraid.”
“Ah, that’s life! Now about your mince. How much did you
want, madame?”
Mushrooms are right up there with cheese in popularity, and
our domaine has the dubious
reputation for being the source of many such earthy wonders. How he recognised
me behind my mask, I couldn’t say. I left to the cheery sounds of “Bon courage!” reminding me what a small,
caring community we are.
May
Special hugs here for all my Facebook friends, who supported
me when I initially shared the detail of this awful saga. I was on a forest
trek with our dogs on this unforgettable day in April. Aby was way ahead, as
usual, bounding gracefully over fallen trees, deftly negotiating uneven ground.
I soon lost sight of her. My attention was grabbed by the awful sounds of Max
feasting on a pile of poo close-by. It’s an unsavoury habit of his.
I was in mid-lecture when I spotted Aby. She was coming
towards us but looked different. Something was wrong. Breaking onto open ground
she stumbled, faltering badly. Aby was staggering on three legs, dragging her
fourth behind.
Horrified, I called to slow her down, but she was determined
to reach us as quickly as possible. She stopped, sides heaving, her offside
rear leg tucked up. I checked for visible injuries, but there were none.
Non-plussed, I wondered whether it had been a superficial
knock. Aby tried to walk. There was no whine or yelp, but she immediately
lifted the leg, which looked wobbly. It was evident she could not weight-bear.
Over the next few days, Aby rested. Frustrating though it
was for her, we were hoping she had twisted the knee, and it would repair
itself. After ten days, Aby could walk without limping but not run. Every time
she trotted, up came that leg. We had tried everything. Lockdown or not, I had
to call the vet.
Our COVID-compliant consultation was conducted in the
veterinary clinic car park. It was as surreal as you can imagine. Docteur Puiffe took Aby away and ran
several tests, eventually returning with bad news.
“Aby has ruptured her posterior ligament, and her knee cap
is dislocating. Did you hear a clicking sound?
“Yes, occasionally.”
“It is internal damage. I think she has also torn her
anterior cruciate ligament.”
Shocked at the severity of the injuries, I listened as Docteur Puiffe explained the recommended
prosthetic surgery. All conducted in French; he was very patient as I fumbled
through many questions to make sure I understood correctly. It was a big
decision to take.
We eventually decided to go through with the surgery. Once
Aby was confirmed fit enough to return home, I rushed back to the vet and anxiously
hung around, watching patients come and go.
The nurse finally joined me with reassurances, pills and
strict instructions.
“Until we see her again, Aby must have total rest. Do not
allow the bandage to get wet. She will have her stitches out in 12 days when Docteur Puiffe will discuss her
rehabilitation with you.”
I was still trying to imagine how our agile girl would deal
with her first period of confinement
when the door opened. Out came a snoozy Aby and the biggest bandage in France.
Aby spotted me and towed the cooing nurse across the car
park in a mixture of excited whines and confused yaps. Somehow forgetting COVID
protocol, the nurse and I gently put our pup in the car.
And so Aby’s ligament lockdown began.
June
After weeks of lead-only walks on flat terrain, Aby started
to gain strength. A highlight came at the end of the month when we joined my
sister, Di, and her two Jack Russell’s for a stroll along the Canal du Midi’s
towpath. This was Aby’s first day off the lead, and I was a bag of nerves.
Ironically, that turned out to be the least of our problems.
We parked next to a lock gate and set off, enjoying our
beautiful surroundings.
“I suppose you know what we’re walking on?” said Di, looking
supremely self-satisfied.
“A path?”
“Ah, hah! But this isn’t any old path. It’s been used by
pilgrims for hundreds of years.”
“Really? Which ones?”
“This is a section of the catholic pilgrimage Route de Compostelle. It’s also known as
the Camino Way. The destination is the legendary tomb of the apostle Saint
James the Great in the cathedral of Santiago de Compostela in Galicia, Spain.”
“Wow, imagine that!”
“Yep, I knew you’d be impressed.”
I studied the path, which had assumed a new significance. We
continued peaceably until a little while later it occurred to me that we were a
dog down.
“Wait a minute, where’s Max?”
I gave him a call. Strangely, he appeared from under the
bridge we had just passed. And he was looking suspiciously proud. Max trotted
up to Di first.
“Oh my God, Beth, do
something!”
“What’s wrong?”
“Max, he’s covered.”
“In what?”
“I don’t know, but it stinks.”
“Go on, Maxy, give Di a big kiss!”
“I’m warning you, Beth, this is toxic!”
“Okay, okay.”
She was right. Some dogs love rolling in carrion, others fox
poo, but usually not Max. However, this substance was plainly irresistible. So
much so, he had wallowed in it and savoured its dubious delights. We were on a
public footpath. It could have been badger poop, it could have something even
more ghastly. Neither of us could bear to think about that. Max reeked.
“Right, Max, it’s no good. You’ll have to go into the
water.”
Luckily, Max is a devoted water dog so getting him in wasn’t
a problem. One belly flop later, and he was happily splashing around. The challenge
was getting him out again. We had reached a point where the canal sides were
sheer.
We eventually hauled him out. And, of course, what was the first
thing he did? Joyously shake off excess water.
“Argh! Beth, he’s showering muck all over us!”
“Eeeuw! And he
still smells. Sorry, take your mind off it by telling me more about the canal.”
“I doubt that’ll help, but alright,”
Di’s gamely recounted potted history was interrupted by a
shrill sound.
Dring, dring!
“Bonjour, monsieur!”
we yodelled as a pink cyclist zoomed past.
“You’d make a great tour guide, Di. Aside from being run
down by a cyclist and dealing with a stinky mutt, this has been terrific.”
“I’d rather deal with a cyclist than the shower you’ll be
giving Max when you get back. He still reeks!”
It had been a great walk, with one exception.
“Beth, open the car windows, please, I can’t stand that stink!”
July
The month began with a rescue and ended with a flourish. During
a regular deer feeding session in May, we found an ailing baby boar in the
forest. It’s a tough life for a little ‘un out there. A skinny chap, he was
being bullied by his siblings and wasn’t strong enough to fight for a decent
meal.
For the next few days, we watched him dwindle, agonising
over what to do. Knowing he would die if we did nothing, we took our hearts in
our hands and caught him.
Little junior spent the next few days in a dog crate. We
built him up with lots of feeds and warmth, and he quickly improved. As soon as
his tummy was bulging, with much trepidation, we re-introduced our stripy
patient to his mum.
Much to our relief, she accepted him, seeming not to have
noticed he had gone. He trotted back to his siblings, this time with a fighting
chance of survival.
Meanwhile, in the garden, my spring project was blooming
lovely, the roses too. Completely out of control, they flowered with gay
abandon sharing a sensation of heavenly scents and sights, which lasted for
weeks.
August
This month brought a confession from La Poste, who admitted to losing a parcel I was due. They sent me
on a mission to make a claim at the post office in the bastide town of Beamont
de Lomagne – a long way from home.
I found the post office quickly. Observing the standard
protocol, I waffled through my mask, and the lady hooted back through hers.
After a verbal tussle, we worked out what one another was saying.
“You need a compensation claim form, Madame.”
I live in France, and this wasn’t a surprise. The lady
produced a dangerously complicated-looking document with many spaces. I had a
bash at filling them in, got stuck and asked for advice. She got stuck too, and
the process ended up as a team-building event with two colleagues brought in to
help.
I left the post office feeling a mixture of mental
exhaustion and relief. It then occurred to me that having come all this way, I
might as well have a potter, and why not? I was in a place of great historical
significance. It was too good an opportunity to pass up.
The bastide town was developed between 1276 and 1279. Today,
there is an air of tired crustiness about the place, but therein lies part of
its charm. As with many ancient towns, the market hall is a centrepiece, and
this one is a favourite of mine.
Constructed in the 14th century, it was the focal point for
the weekly market and still is. Silly though it sounds, I love the thought of
buying goods on the same site used by folks in medieval times.
I headed into the tourist information centre and asked for
more information about the town. The lady’s eyes lit up.“Here you are, Madame,”
she said, thrusting a wad of leaflets in my hand.
“Lovely, thank you.”
“You are welcome, and you must see this, come with me.”
Intrigued, I followed the girl out through the quad, down
several steps and along a dark passage. Just as I was beginning to think
something had got horribly lost between the folds of my mask, she abruptly
stopped.
“Here,” she said, plunging an enormous key into an archaic
lock. A clunk released the internals, and the door swung open. “Take these
stairs,” she said, pointing at a stone spiral staircase. “At the top, you will
see the view. Please close the door when you return.”
And with that, she disappeared.
So, there I was, down a shadowy passage looking at a flight
of worn stone steps. Not precisely The Raiders of the Lost Arc, but I did feel
slightly intrepid. I started climbing the stairs. Up and up I went.
Inexorably up, I finally saw a glimmer of light from skinnier
steps that I presumed led to the top. Thigh muscles screaming, I finally made
it. Those panoramic views of the town were fantastic.
After taking several photos, I retraced my steps. For
someone who spends hours and hours dog walking, I was surprised how wobbly my
legs felt by the time I reached ground level. Extreme stair climbing evidently
requires the use of niche muscle groups.
I headed back to my car, traversing cobbled streets, passing
crumbly shutters, massive oak doors and truly outstanding buildings. It had
been a wonderfully unexpected adventure, one to remember. Oh, and did my parcel
ever turn up? No, of course not!
September
For fairly obvious reasons, we had decided not to take a
holiday. Feeling a bit itchy-footed, I bullied Jack into visiting a town I had
been dying to see. With customary bad grace, he eventually agreed, and we set
off.
Deep into the
countryside, we drove. There were none of the gentle fruit-growing landscapes
we see in our area. This was big-boys rugged terrain.
“Wow! Jack, quick, look right.”
“I can’t on this bend, obviously.”
“Never mind, you’ll see it in a moment.”
There it was again. A slash in the landscape. We had reached
the Aveyron Gorge, a natural feature more than 50 kilometres long. Vertical
cliffs, some over 500 metres high, towered above the river flowing far below. A
vast forest covered the landscape like a verdant duvet, bisected by the
limestone fissure. It was an incredible scene.
We negotiated countless tricky bends, and finally, it came
into view: Saint Antonin Noble Val, a secret town nestling at the confluence of
the Aveyron and Bonnette rivers.
“Parking here is going to be a nightmare. You get out here
while I find somewhere to leave the car.”
“Okay, where shall we meet?”
“I’ll find you.”
I leapt out and walked beneath a massive cathedral-like
archway into another world. Just for a moment, I was utterly alone on a cobbled
way lined either side with medieval buildings. Some looked like homes, others,
shops with living quarters above. I was entranced.
The narrow street was interrupted by openings to intriguing
allies. I couldn’t resist a peek. There were balconies, twisty passageways, old
and new masonry and planters – I imagined they were folks’ homes.
Back out, and I passed several different shops, which looked
as though they had been established centuries earlier. As the way broadened,
cafés came into view with residents and visitors enjoying morning coffee in the
shade of squashed-together buildings.
Soft pastel paint, flaky on walls provided canvasses for
sprawling gnarled vines. Wood stanchions, battered shutters and balconies with
intricate ironwork designs, I gazed in wonder at them all.
I returned to Jack, who was looking suspiciously relaxed,
having neatly avoided the sight-seeing session. Determined he should see at
least something, we drove out of the town via its ancient bridge. Inspired, at
last, he pulled up to have a look.
The studded steeple of a splendid church dominated one side,
surrounded by a cluster of buildings. There were homeowners taking tea on
balconies. The benign river was a-bob with enthusiasts in canoes and kayaks,
the perfect way to enjoy this waterway on a hot day.
Imbued by the beauty of this remarkable place, I pledged to
return and spend more time here. It’ll be a highlight this year.
October
We were at the back end of a long hot summer, one which parched
plants and turned our forest trails to clouds of dust. Not for the first time
we’ve thanked our lucky stars for the brooks, and natural springs on our land.
The deer, being refined creatures, had taken to sheltering
quietly in shady spots. We spotted some as they ventured out to feed and play
in the evenings. Watching beautiful little poppets like this from observation
hides reminded us of how charmed our lives are here.
Meanwhile, despite our neighbour farmers cussing the extra
spend on irrigation, their sun-loving crops zoomed out of the ground and put on
a dazzling show. Sunflowers, maize, apples, plums, tomatoes and grapes, were
positively voluptuous.
Sadly, COVID had prevented us from participating in our
friends’ vendange, grape harvest. Even
Jack (who prefers the post-harvest celebration) missed it. Never mind, there
will be plenty more to come.
November
This month brought a fun mission.
Di had an errand in a town called Marmande and asked if I
would go along with her. Of course, I love quests!
As we crossed a bridge on the outskirts of the town, Di had
a thought.
“Ooh, I wonder if we’ll see many tomatoes?”
“Why on earth would you say that?”
“Ahah! Well, clearly you didn’t know that Marmande is the
largest producer of tomatoes in our part of France.”
“I’m going to confiscate that guide book of yours.”
“No, really, this is interesting. They’ve been grown
intensively here since the nineteenth century. And get this. There are many
producers of Marmande tomatoes, including the Grand Master of the Brotherhood
of the Knights of the Love Apple. Love apple is what the tomato was called in
the Middle Ages.”
“Classic! Fancy having a Grand Master. There has to be a
tomato fête.”
“Of course! They make giant ratatouilles and enormous tomato
tarts, which are washed down with the local wine and accompanied by lots of
festivities.”
“Sounds perfect, let’s go.”
“It’ll have to be next year. It takes place in July.”
We reached our destination too early for Di’s rendezvous, so
headed for the nearest café. The pâtisserie
bulged at the seams with goodies. Gawping at the cake selection, we made our
choices.
I couldn’t resist a tartelette
aux fraises, Di had her heart set on tartelette
au citron meringues, and who could blame her? With our tray of delectables
plus aromatic coffees, we tucked into what we declared were among the best
strawberry and lemon tarts we had ever eaten.
We were still early, so decided to have a mooch. En route to
the town centre, we passed a collection of 14th-century buildings.
Fascinating though they were, what we saw next couldn’t have been less medieval
if it tried.
A colossal clock with signs of the zodiac on the dial was
positioned in the square’s centre. A large bell with Chinese characters was
suspended above. There had to be a story behind this!
It was the incongruous brainchild of the then town mayor,
Gérard Gouzes. On his return from a trip to China in 2011, he announced that
the Chinese citizens of Yuncheng, with whom Marmande were considering a
possible twinning, wished to offer a typical bell, accompanied by a clock.
Despite many disagreements on suitability and cost, the
mayor had his way with the town’s officials. Gérard Gouzes was allegedly
delighted with the furore and was quoted as saying, “The controversy will
create curiosity and attract people. I do not regret it. This symbolic gesture
will resonate in our relations with China.”
Still unsure whether we should be impressed or amused, we
strolled on. This quirky place was deserving of a future visit, and it’ll be
during the tomato fête.
December
To say the end of the year was filled with thrills ‘n spills
would be an understatement.
Our plans to launch Fat Dogs Part 5 before Christmas were foiled
by a last-minute technical glitch. One small meltdown later we got it back on
track. The revised publication date of January 16 is just around the corner,
and I can’t wait to share our latest adventures with you.
Just when we thought we had everything sorted out on the
technical front, our internet connection threw a wobbly. Over the past couple
of weeks, Jack, mister determined-to-fix-everything-himself, has been up and
down ladders more times than a window cleaner (although he had a very different
term for it), trying to locate the fault.
No luck yet, but I know he won’t give in. In the meantime,
we’re bumbling along at a sedate pace, and uploading images from a special spot
I found the other day in the forest, and the local supermarket car park.
As the year drew to a close, instead of partying with
friends, like so many others, Jack and I welcomed in the New Year at home. Snuggled
up in front of the fire with the dogs and cats, we reflected on the dramas of
2020. With no health issues, we reminded ourselves of the many reasons we have
to be grateful.
Aby is now back to full fitness, Max hasn’t crocked himself
or rolled in any yucky poo for a couple of minutes, and La Poste hasn’t lost a parcel for, ooh, ages. All in all, it’s a
great way to start the New Year!
A million thanks to you for following our adventures here in
France. We wish you a happy, healthy 2021, a year filled with hope and renewed optimism.
