The Apéritif

Some time ago we were invited to have drinks at a local farmer’s house. As with most initiatives in our corner of France, the invitation had taken time to mature. It started with a tiny hint about getting together - nothing more serious than that. But then some weeks went by, which gave my irascible husband, Jack, a chink of hope that an evening of small-talk might have been forgotten. But he was thwarted once again.

Right out of the blue, an actual date and time was offered, some three months after the original idea had been mooted. Strangely though, it came via a third party - one of their sons. He explained that our hosts were concerned we wouldn’t understand their strong regional accents, and since we had only met them once before, they wanted to make things easy for us. Jack couldn’t resist commenting on this, remarking that it might make the evening mercifully short if we were going to end up sitting around a table staring at each other, speechless. (I’m afraid my husband has always had a bad attitude when it comes to socialising.) The son had also been charged with finding out what we liked to drink and eat, which was an extremely thoughtful consideration. Unlike Jack, I was very much looking forward to it.

Monsieur Calchan is a prominent land owner in the area. He farms over 300 hectares (740 acres) of fruit trees, and started working on the land when he was 14 years old. He is locally revered for his reputation as being the fount of all knowledge where it comes to troublesome apples, which is probably not overly surprising since he looks about 80. I was very keen to chat with him and his wife, and learn more about his life’s work.

By the time our date finally arrived, we had been cross-examined several times about our culinary and beverage passions. This had caused Jack to become decidedly frustrated.

“Look, I’m getting bored now. We drink beer. We drink all colours of wine, and I like gin. Shall I write it down in French for them?”

“No. Stop being mean darling; I think it’s lovely of them. They’re just behaving as excellent hosts and wanting to get things absolutely right. Try and be grateful.”

“Humph! I suppose so.”

In view of the obvious importance of the occasion I took care over our choice of clothes. I ended up with a tidy beige linen trouser suit and the obligatory floaty scarf, bottomed-off with my favourite dress shoes. Jack looked handsomely European in his chino trousers, loafers and check shirt. Disappointingly though, he steadfastly refused to complete the French look by wearing his sweater over his shoulders. We drove the three kilometres to the home of our hosts which I was intrigued to see.

Monsieur and Madame Calchan were outside ready to greet us. Both born and brought up in the village, their statures are typical of the area – short and sturdily built. Monsieur’s face was partially concealed by the brim of his rather large fruit-grower’s hat, but it was still possible to see his broad grin and one or two remaining teeth. He was neatly dressed in an ancient looking denim-blue shirt, and trousers that displayed the tell-tale signs of a career where kneeling was a primary requirement. Madame was hatless, and despite having extraordinarily jet-black hair, was probably a similar age to her husband. She was wearing a very pretty floral frock, which was sensibly protected by a housecoat. As we walked towards them I was enchanted by her cherubic features, and the warmest of smiles.

We shook hands and were about to enter when Monsieur stopped, stared at me, and said (in French),

“You must come around the back and look at my kumquats!”

Jack gave him a decidedly old fashioned look. Then turning to me he murmured,

“His what?”

“Kumquats darling. They’re a citrus oblongy pulpy fruit, and they’re…”

“Yes, I know what kumquats are, but I’ve never known them to be a tourist attraction. Well, we can’t leave Madame Calchan by herself so I’ll stay here and have a chat with her while you go and coo at an orange.”

Although this sounded extraordinarily unlike Jack, I decided it was preferable to having him hissing in my ear whilst I tried to appreciate what I was being shown. Nodding enthusiastically at our host, I left Jack with madame, and walked to what I presumed would be the patio. How wrong I was.

The house backed directly onto a lush meadow, at the bottom end of which I could just make out some yellow dots. Monsieur pointed at these with a gnarled paw,

“Kumquats!” He cried.

“Oh excellent!” I replied, unsure as to what I was supposed to do next. Monsieur eyed my nice, neat, high-heeled shoes, and asked if I was alright to walk over the grass to take a closer look. Not wishing to be a party-pooper I cried, “Oui monsieur. Pas de problème – allez!”

It had rained during the previous night, but fortunately the day had been dry. This was likely to have made some positive difference to the ground conditions, but it was subtle. I tottered across the field after monsieur who was chatting away merrily to himself, scarifying the turf with my pointed heels, and getting soggier with every pace.

We eventually reached a cemented area which was crammed with pots of assorted shapes and sizes. Some housed kumquat shrubs, others lemons and there were even a few grapefruits which, by the way, are called pamplemousse in French – a lovely word! Their glossy leaves shone in the evening sun, fairly radiating health and vigour. Imbued with glorious citrusy scents, I focused hard on monsieur’s difficult-to-understand accent, as he lovingly described each shrub. He was fascinating to listen to, and seemed to have a great depth of knowledge. As if proof of this were demanded, every now and again he would tweak a branch and present me with a fresh fruit, with the promise that it would have the best flavour I had ever tasted. I later learnt that he was right.

Time was obviously of no consequence to monsieur, who seemed to have forgotten that he was hosting apéritifs. About 15 minutes had passed when I did think we ought to get back to the others, fearing that by now Jack’s nerves might be in social tatters. I managed to mention this as monsieur was drawing breath after a particularly long (and useful) lecture on lemon varieties. Luckily he took the hint, nodded vigorously and set off back to the house. I trudged after him, now heavily laden with fruit.

As we reached the house I realised that we were not the only ones to have been invited. Our Brazilian friends Silvio and Ana had joined madame and Jack, and were chatting away animatedly. Well this was nice. Understandably I was pretty hot after our citrus expedition so as we commenced the traditional French multi-kiss welcome process, I’m afraid that my recipients were left looking a little moist. On reflection I think air-kisses might be have been advisable, but it was too late now. Jack stared me.

“What on earth have you been doing? You’re caked in mud!”

I looked down and sure enough the bottom half of my beige trousers were now a dingy brown, and had several stems of grass stuck to them. My ex-lovely shoes were even worse. They were liberally spattered in mud. Horrified, I quickly plucked a tissue out of my handbag and began removing clods of earth from the heels. As I was doing so Jack continued,

“And why have you taken so long? We’re absolutely dying of thirst here, particularly Silvio who hasn’t had a drink since he left his house five minutes ago.”

This was a reference to the fact that, in our part of France, the partaking of the first sip at a social gathering is a very important moment, and can only be executed when the full company is assembled. One raises one’s glass to chink the glass of the person closest while staring fixedly at them and saying ‘à votre santé’ (to your health), or ‘à votre’ if you’re feeling tired, or even just ‘santé’. The process is then repeated until the last chinkee has been chinked. Then the business of enjoying one’s beverage can begin. The chinking can take a while though.

“Well I’m sorry to interfere with your social timetable darling, but it was very absorbing. Monsieur certainly knows his onions when it comes to kumquats!”  

Jack merely scowled at my attempted pun, so I handed him the fruit instead, adding,

“I know, it wasn’t my best joke. Anyway pop this lot in the car please, so we can go in.”

Once done, we were led to the house. Somewhat strangely, rather than entering via the front door as one might expect, we were taken through a set of French windows that were adjacent to it. We trooped into a long, narrow room that was as cold as a mausoleum, and extremely dark. Fortunately the white paint on the walls went some way to help visibility, as did the curious arrangement of fairy lights that decorated a dried flower arrangement in one corner. The glow also reflected off the tinsel that was strapped to four more arrangements. However, unless the wall lights were switched on, I feared that we might be in for trouble later on. The room was economically furnished with a rectangular dining table, twelve chairs, and a tall skinny wall cabinet.

Monsieur promptly disappeared through a door in the corner, leaving Madame to bustle around with the seating arrangements. Conversing with Silvio and Ana is always fun. This is because their native language is Portuguese, ours is English and the common language used here is French. None of us are entirely fluent French speakers, so a great deal of arm waving and raising of voices are employed to aid comprehension. Unfortunately, in this case, it wasn’t at all helpful to shout because there was a discernible echo in the room which made our voices sound like a muffled roar. Madame, obviously familiar with the acoustics, balanced things nicely by whispering. This had a dramatic effect on the rest of us. Everyone stopped in their tracks, and looked at her. Audience now attentive, she had the floor. We collectively craned our necks, ostrich-like and peered at her, intent on understanding what she had to say. She began to tell us about the history of her home and the generations of her husband’s family who had lived there. It was absorbing stuff. She was halfway through the story when the door was flung open and in came monsieur pushing an ancient trolley buckling under the weight of bottles, cans and the biggest plastic tub of peanuts I have ever seen.

Monsieur had now removed his headgear and we could finally see the fullness of his face. It was nut brown save for the pale skin tramline where the brim of the hat had protected his forehead. He had brilliant sparkly brown eyes which were surrounded by wrinkles that scrunched up in a delightful knot as he beamed at us all.

“My son told me what you like to drink, and here it is with our pleasure.” He said with great pride.

The penny suddenly dropped. There had been a mix-up in translation (which I’m afraid is a regular event where we live).

“That’s impressive!” hissed Jack as monsieur began presenting us with every single choice of alcoholic beverage that had been listed during our exhaustive discussions on the subject with his son. He proudly lined up cans of beer (embarrassingly, three varieties for me), bottles of wine, a bottle of gin for Jack, and a huge bottle of whisky for Silvio. The tub of nuts were plonked in front of us and he, being the host, began to dispense each drink.  This took quite a while because there was such a choice, but he finally made it. Then, beaming from ear to ear, he began the ‘à votre santé’ routine. We all joined in and the evening got under way in earnest.

After about an hour of steady drinking we began to understand one another much more easily. And, as is often the case in a relaxed situation like this, we all quickly transformed into world experts in the fields our own pet subjects. Ana, in particular, was becoming extremely animated (as indeed Brazilians often are). This time her subject was the Rio Olympics. Last year it had been the FIFA World Cup. Jack, never missing any opportunity to offer a xenophobic slant on things, had already re-christened both events under the generic title of ‘Bribes Festas del Rio’. Poor Ana remained patriotically enthusiastic, gesturing expansively with her arms in her efforts to express herself clearly. This inevitably resulted in the delivery of an occasional glancing blow to Silvio who was sitting next to her, but fortunately he seemed to be quite used to this and didn’t bat an eyelid.

In response to Ana’s enthusiasm, I could see that Jack was building up to his alcohol-assisted lecture about countries that spend billions hosting the Olympics and such-like, yet can’t keep their population housed or healthy. This needed to be nipped in the bud. I turned to him and whispered,

“Not a good time for your ‘Hold the Olympics in the same place every four years and save the building costs’ speech darling, thank you.”

Meanwhile, madame was still whispering away happily to Silvio and monsieur. However, since monsieur was a double hearing aid user, in the melee of general chatter, he was unlikely to have heard much of what she had to say. In any event he was much more intent on being the perfect host, and the moment he spotted the third sip being imbibed by one of his guests, his little brown eyes scrunched up in delight. This was his cue to reach for the bottle lined up next to the individual concerned, and slosh another generous helping in the tumbler. In Silvio’s case, he had evidently only mentioned whisky as his favoured drink. As I looked on, try as I might, I couldn’t ignore the speed at which the level in the 1.5 litre bottle was falling. Silvio had taken on a decidedly rosy hue. To my cost I had seen this look before.

Jack and I had attended a fete last year which featured an evening dinner. Thinking that this would be a fairly tame occasion I'd agreed to be ‘designated driver’. We were dining with Silvio and Ana, and they kindly invited us to drinks at their house before walking into the village for our meal.

During dinner I had allowed myself one glass of wine, and then spent the rest of the evening humouring Jack, Silvio and Ana, who were becoming increasingly jolly and lively. Jack began telling his dreadful jokes which our friends thought were screamingly funny, and he wasn’t at all daunted when they roared with laughter in all the wrong places. I observed them with a forced smile that I dare say looked more like a grimace, and dodged the crumbs that were being fired at me like pellets by Ana who was sitting opposite. She’d recently had new crowns fitted, and unfortunately hadn’t yet harnessed the techniques required for eating with them.

It was around midnight by the time the fete dinner ended. The four of us, some tottering, set out into the chill night air, everyone filled with vim and vigour – except me. Jack was still telling awful jokes to no-one in particular, so I used this as a cue to chuckle away supportively, whilst gently steering him toward the car. I turned to bid our friends goodnight when Ana flailed her hands in the air to stop us. She’d had a seemingly brilliant idea.

“Silvio and I would like to sing a Brazilian song to you before you go.”

I was horrified at the very thought of it, but before I could say no, Jack piped up.

“Marvellous idea, oh yes please!”

Tsk, tsking my slightly whined suggestions about the lateness of the hour, they collectively ignored me, strode into the garden and sat around the picnic table. Silvio produced two bottles of red wine and a guitar, and the recital began.

Unfortunately Ana evidently favoured the Fado style of music. This is a type of popular Portuguese song, usually with a melancholy theme, and often terribly depressing to listen to.

I’m genuinely certain that she has a fine voice, on her day, but after consuming such an impressively large quantity of wine, I would have defied anyone being able to string two notes together accurately. Under normal circumstances the tuneless wailing that resulted is exactly the sort of thing that would grate horribly on Jack’s nerves, but not a bit of it. He was entranced. We collectively struggled through several songs. Collectively because Ana had to stop every now and again because she had forgotten the words. Even though he had absolutely no knowledge at all of the intended lyrics, undaunted, Jack would chip-in with useful suggestions. This would trigger a small debate after which Ana would grind into action once more.

Our cabaret was evidently thirsty work which eventually caused a merciful intermission. Empty bottles were replaced with fresh, but when offered, I refused all suggestions of giving up on my responsibility as driver for the night, and determinedly nursed my beaker of water. It was now absolutely freezing, as it would be in the middle of winter, however no-one else seemed to notice the creeping onset of frostbite other than me, so we soldiered on.  

The climax of the impromptu concert came unexpectedly. Ana was in the dying throes of a particularly discouraging song when she flung her head towards Silvio in an act of great drama. Unfortunately this caused her gorgeously long hair to flop onto Silvio’s guitar whereupon it instantly became entangled in the strings. Silvio was forced to stop mid-strum. I could see that no lasting harm had been done, so used the mishap as an opportunity to make a rapid exit. I shot up, gasping appropriately, and offered to help Ana unpick her hair. She waved me away saying that there was no need because Silvio would know what to do. This had obviously happened many times before. As they sat there removing each strand of hair, one at a time, I grabbed Jack. He was still gazing into the middle distance, glass in hand, and seemed not to have noticed that the music had stopped. We made our goodbyes, which presented some proximity issues in Ana’s case because she was still cemented to the guitar. So instead of launching into the kissing cheeks business, we patted her fondly on her available arm, and left.

We finally arrived home at around 3.30am. I was frozen to the core, but Jack looked perfectly cosy, still humming tunelessly with a beatific expression on his face. It was at that moment I resolved to be less eager about offering to be the designated driver in future.

Madame Calchan jolted me back to reality by getting up and whispering “viande”. This caught us all a little off balance. It’s true that the peanuts had taken a bit of a hammering by now, so perhaps she was going to produce a plate of meat. After all the French in our area are famously generous with their offerings of wonderful platefuls of food, so it did make sense. As she went out monsieur resumed his job as sommelier, and took up the time by replenishing any glasses that looked as though they had dropped below the three-sip level.

Madame returned quickly with a mountain of meat which she reverently placed in front of us. It was quite dark in the room now so identification was difficult. As we all dutifully peered at it with great interest I suddenly realised what we were looking at. It was a great pile of spam.

In spite of being a die-hard carnivore, if there’s a foodstuff that Jack really doesn’t care for, I’m afraid it is spam. He complains that it is full of unidentifiable substances and should have been phased out when ration books were dispensed with. Fortunately though, my husband is short in the observation skills department. I glanced nervously at him, hoping that he hadn’t realised what he was looking at, also hoping that the gin and various glasses of wines might have mellowed his attitude towards this reconstituted luncheon meat.

Madame glowed with pride as she looked down on her pink pile. Monsieur explained that she had hunted high and low for the one dish that she’d been told was a special favourite amongst ALL English people. Here was another incredibly kind and thoughtful gesture, we simply couldn’t let her down. Madame ceremoniously passed the plate around the table and refusing to partake themselves, they both watched us, expectant. They were obviously thrilled at the thought that they had managed to source such a treat for their guests.

Jack, who was fortunately seated farthest away from our hosts, had finally realised what he was looking at. He stuffed down one slice and hissed at me.

“I hate this bloody stuff, I can’t eat any more.”

“Don’t be so ridiculous, just get on with it!”

Fortunately the roar created by Silvio and Ana’s animated discussion about the meat meant that our minor exchange had gone unheard. Evidently they couldn’t find appropriate words in French to describe their views, and had resorted to Portuguese which I’m afraid, made things even louder. Meanwhile, Jack heroically stuffed down one more slice, and then patted his stomach blaming an excessive intake of peanuts on his refusal to eat any more. Terrified of upsetting our hosts, I waded through about six more slices until I too had to stop.

Time was getting on now and monsieur announced that he had one final treat in store for us – and it was something he had made himself. This always fills me with fear because the country folk around here are extremely resourceful when it comes to making use of all available body parts. Many of which end up as wonderful recipes, but the odd one is extremely questionable. But I was on completely the wrong track. Monsieur disappeared and returned with a large bottle of colourless liquid. With a huge scrunchy grin spreading across his jovial face he said,

“Here is my very special Eau de Vie de Pomme. It is twenty years old and because this is a special occasion, I want to drink it with you.”

For anyone who has been lucky enough to avoid being acquainted with this French/European speciality, I should explain. It is basically a colourless fruit (often apple or pear, but never grape) brandy that is produced by means of fermentation and double distillation. Owing to its extremely high alcohol content, it is usually served in small quantities as a digestif after a meal. Ironically translated as ‘water of life’, I am fairly convinced that excessive consumption of it would quite easily bring most people close to death. It is however, loved and revered by many, but to me it smells like lighter fuel, and probably tastes the same. Even two sips of the stuff can cause me, for some strange reason, to develop a severe earache.

Luckily monsieur chose to exchange our tumblers with thimbles, and he served up this vital fluid with evident excitement. Usually, in situations like this where I can’t cope with the contents, Jack comes in very handy. He’ll drink anything. I’ll wait for the moment when his glass is empty, and then make a discrete swap. This time I wasn’t so lucky. Monsieur announced that because the liquor was so special we must all drink it together. We went through a team ‘à votre santé’, and I took the tiniest sip, slightly burning my lips in the process. Suddenly there was an explosion from the other side of the table. Poor Ana, had got things horribly lost in translation. Thinking that we had been served with a fruit cordial she slugged the whole lot back in one go and began to choke as the liquid took hold in her oesophagus. As tears cascaded down her cheeks in her efforts to regain control, Silvio made things considerably worse by thumping her on the back. There was now a real possibility that this would cause a reappearance of the spam, which would definitely put a kibosh on the evening.

Fortunately we managed to stop Silvio from causing bodily harm, and Ana slowly regained her equilibrium. I passed her mountains of tissues which she used to good effect to deal with her mascara which had now begun to drip off her chin. Her crowns had remained in place throughout too, which was an added bonus. Monsieur looked on with great interest clearly trying to work out whether his precious liquor had hit the desired spot. He patiently waited for Ana to stop being noisy and, raising the bottle once again said, 

“Would you like me to refill your glass?”

That was our cue to go.

We had spent a lovely evening with a couple who had lived for the last 80 or so years in the same village. They were related to most of the people in that village, and knew the land like the backs of their hands. As with all the country folk we have so far met here in our little corner of France, they were simple-minded, practical folk who live by the traditional values in life. They were extraordinarily kind and generous. And, in spite of their misguided choice of meaty delicacy, I find it incredibly humbling that they should go to such lengths to ensure that we enjoyed our evening with them. And yes, despite leaving with soggy trousers and ruined shoes, we thoroughly enjoyed it.

An average day in my life – Part three

My husband, Jack caught me off guard recently when he loftily announced that he was going ‘native’ and do what our French neighbours do. Slightly alarmed, I asked what he meant. Much to my relief he declared that, after several consecutive nights of disturbed sleep, mainly due to the antics of various animals, he was attracted by the notion of a southern-European siesta after lunch. I thought this was a great idea, and thoroughly well deserved. Unfortunately though, neither the dogs, the telephone-marketers or our post lady seem to have appreciated the importance of these much anticipated forty winks.

Between the hours of 1.00pm – 2.00pm (peak siesta time), we regularly receive calls from enthusiastic sales people. Similar to their British counterparts, the business success of these tenacious callers relies on their ability to persuade a complete stranger to buy their goods. To them it is a matter of supreme irrelevance whether or not the recipient actually wants or needs the product. They have a sales target to fulfil, so the ‘talking the customer to death’ technique is used until success is achieved, or the phone slammed down. Either way, it can definitely spoil a decent nap.

Jack steadfastly refuses to answer the telephone, and treats it with utter disdain when it rings. He blames his phobic refusal to pick up the receiver on the sales people, but I suspect it’s just his method of avoiding having to speak to anyone other than the me. His defence against the intrusion of unwanted callers has been the installation of an answer machine. This deters the marketers because they never leave a message, but we still have to endure the irritating six rings before it connects, in order to establish whether it is friend or foe. Jack can just about manage to tolerate this, but it still does nothing for his nap-aspiration. The next problem comes in the form of our dogs and the post lady.

Our post lady knows that we’re normally in the house at lunchtime, and uses this period to visit us when a parcel either needs to be signed for, or is too big to be squashed up, re-moulded and stuffed into our tiny letter box. Unfortunately her visits turn out to be rather a noisy affair. It takes just one crunch on the gravel drive to alert the dogs. They suddenly erupt in a cacophony of barks and fall over themselves, and also anything else that lies on their routes to the front door. Even the most dedicated napper can’t avoid being roused by this. So poor Jack is jolted awake, bleary-eyed and with a menacing facial tic developing, he begins roaring from a standing start. We’re all used to it now, even our lovely post lady, who no doubt can hear him from halfway down the drive. In the absence of any other English clients, I fear she thinks this is normal behaviour for English people about to receive a parcel. But she takes it all in very good humour.

A further occasional fly in the ointment can come in the form of Max, one of our Australian Shepherd dogs. Jack likes to drink a glass of milk with his meal, and will often take the half-drunk tumbler into the salon. He’ll place it on the coffee table next to his seat and settle down for ‘the’ snooze. Max will kick around nonchalantly in the kitchen until he hears the first sotto voce snore. This is his signal. Every now and again, with the skill of a ninja, he’ll slink in on tip toes, head for the glass and start demolishing the remaining contents. But unfortunately for him he is a noisy lapper, and soon gets caught out. Jack, lightly showered with droplets of milk, is alerted by the slurping sounds. Quick as a flash he’ll jump up and lunge at Max, shouting unspeakable oaths in the process. But he’s always too slow. Max, looking mortally wounded, darts off back to the kitchen to find a toy, no doubt to offer in exchange for the last dregs of liquid nectar. In the face of these combined challenges, I fear that Jack’s siesta ambitions are never going to get off first base. 

Having cleared up after our meal, and dealt with the aftermath of any impromptu visitors, it’s time for the dog walk. The dogs are extremely focused about this, and take a very dim view of anything that conspires to get in the way. The first job is to decide on our route. We are extraordinarily lucky to live amongst hundreds of hectares of fruit orchards so our choices are rich. The farmers readily give their permission to walk on their land, although they do find the idea of dog-walking as a pleasurable pastime, a little quaint to say the least.

I’ll try to spend a couple of hours rambling in the woods, by the river or around one of the lakes that pepper the orchards and vineyards. The dogs gallop around with gay abandon, and go out of their way to take advantage of any water they come across. It matters not whether it is smelly or clean, they love a good wallow or better still, a game of retrieve-the-floaty-thing from the murky depths.

Our walks are never uneventful and this in part is due to Max, who is accident prone. This is to such an extent that, rather embarrassingly, his antics have caused our dog-owner friends to declare him to be maladroit (clumsy). Jack, on the other hand, uses plainer language, "That dog’s got sawdust for brains." Max will invariably end up stuck in a bush, wedged down a hole or hurl himself with gay abandon towards an impenetrable hazard. Being a master of the ‘leap before you look’ school of jumping, this usually ends in mortified failure and much yelping. Aby’s progress is much more refined, except on those occasions when a wild animal is spotted. The two of them then come together like a couple of velociraptors and, given half the chance, they’d hunt their prey into a corner. However, if they were allowed succeed, I’m certain that Aby would invite the poor creature back home for tea, while Max would try to find a toy for them to play with. But, so far, we’ve managed to avoid dealing with a confrontation of that nature. All too soon our walk has come to an end and it’s time to see to the birds.

We’ve raised hundreds of game birds to release into the enclosed section of our woods. Sadly, several have fallen prey to natural predators, but we've managed to maintain a group who will hopefully breed freely in the future. Each day after lunch, Jack will saddle-up his quad bike and drive off into the forest to do his rounds. This involves filling food mangers, water dispensers and perfecting his skills at unarmed combat with our free-ranging geese. Hector, the gander, is quite a fearsome chap, and lightning quick with his beak which he uses to great effect on any passing human. On many occasions I have seen Jack wandering around with Hector (who is very large) stuck under his arm, giving him a lecture on courteous behaviour towards the lunch provider. Jack has yet to learn that stroking an animal’s tummy is never going to prove a deterrent in the pecking order process and, whilst I’m sure Hector understands every single word of the stern lecture, it’s never going to moderate his testosterone-fuelled attack instincts.

 My job is to look after the parent birds. These are strong, healthy animals whose job it is to breed and produce future generations to go and populate our woods. We have eight aviaries with a mix of quail, chickens, tourterelles, and various types of pheasants. The quail come first and are an uncommonly perky lot. Very small, quite rotund, and well camouflaged, I have to tread carefully in order to avoid flattening one by accident. As soon as I walk in they immediately clamber all over my boots in their endeavours to get into the food bucket. This is impossible because they are appallingly bad at flying – and climbing. Quite how they ever managed to evolve as birds is a mystery. They eat a vast amount of food for such small animals, but in return they offer plentiful gifts. The ladies are prolific egg producers. They seem to ping out one a day, each with a different pattern, every one beautiful in its own way. I will gather them up carefully, and end up looking like the Pied Piper of Hamelin with a procession of ‘shorties’ following me around, inspecting each egg with great interest. Reluctantly I leave my little mates and start on the pheasant pens.

Reeves cock pheasants are particularly beautiful animals, but have the reputation of being extremely territorial. Mostly they’re fine, but we have one male who has axe-murdering tendencies, and a scurrilous approach to fair play. We call him ‘The Vulture’. His routine is to stalk me as I fill the containers, chirruping dangerously like an outboard motor. Then, the moment I turn my back, he’ll strike! These birds can jump to my head height and have very long spurs on the back of their legs which they use to attack their combatant – in this case me. I tried several soothing tactics to stop this unwanted behaviour, but if anything, the nicer I was, the worse he became. I tolerated him for ages but, after the third near miss, and a rip in my jacket, I’d had enough and decided to call in the heavies.

I put a collar and lead on Max and we entered the pen together. It was instantly clear that my brilliant guard dog plan wasn’t going to work. Max, petrified of the hissing whistling bird, tried to run away. In his endeavours he wound his lead around my legs and ended up in a knot behind my knees. The Vulture now had me at a severe disadvantage. Using a panic-based distraction technique, I started to bellow at the bird whilst simultaneously untangling myself from the lead. This caused him momentary confusion so Max and I took our chance and made a run for it.

The scene in that pen was one of utter chaos as Max and I galloped the full length with The Vulture thundering along in hot pursuit, looking like a manic Roadrunner, preparing to strike. I flung open the door but, in our enthusiasm to make a quick exit, we got wedged in the gateway – and froze. The Vulture was right on our heels. As he flapped into the air we just managed to squeeze out in time and I slammed the gate shut. The Vulture, now at point blank range, impacted at full throttle against the wire netting. Momentarily stunned, he slid gently down the door and ended up in a feathery heap on the ground. For a dreadful moment I wondered whether the collision had killed him, but he was far too tough for that. Max and I peered cautiously from the safety of the exterior and watched as he got up, apparently completely unperturbed. He stared viciously at us with his black beautiful eyes. He ruffled his feathers, whistled and chirruped and stood ready for our next encounter.

Here was another occasion when I ruefully reflected that, were it not for the fact that this bird fathers wonderful, very gentle offspring, he would have probably ended up in a pot by now. However, determined not to be outdone, or shredded by this magnificent creature, I racked my brain for a solution. It came from an unexpected source.  

We wanted to introduce some new stock into our existing flock to avoid interbreeding. I duly collected some pretty new Reeves hen pheasants and released them to The Vulture. I could see what was on his mind, ‘Attack human opportunity. Always good entertainment to see it running around like a dim chicken.’ But then he spotted the new girls. The threatening outboard motor burblings transformed into a gentle chirrup. The bird was immediately smitten. My encounters with The Vulture after this happy event have not been entirely incident-free, and I continue to arm myself with a stick to fend him off, but he spends such a lot of time rounding up his new ladies that he has little time left to plan his full-on assaults.

The chickens are much easier to deal with. We have two pens and the pattern is the same for both. Fortunately the cockerels are absolute gentlemen and bob their heads up and down as I arrive laden with food. The girls are somewhat different. Born ravenous, they busybody around me, clucking and squawking raucously, re-arranging themselves constantly according to their pecking order. Rather like the quail, one would have thought that they hadn’t been fed for weeks, but nothing could be farther from the truth.

The first job is to have a chat because they do like a good gossip. I will usually sit on a log and discuss the worm-count, egg situation and how we’re collectively going to deal with the pesky mice that regularly eat their food. Our discussion is punctuated by the odd shriek that comes from the no.11 chicken who dares to venture into no.10’s spot, and is swiftly returned to her proper place in the ranks. That done, and chickens being extremely inquisitive creatures, they now have to inspect the food and drink offerings. This causes our semi-orderly gathering to transform into a boisterous bun-fight as the girls clamber over themselves to begin their refreshments. The poor cockerel does try his best to retain control, but he doesn’t stand a chance with this mob, so ends up strutting around ineffectually in the background. Our girls are great producers though, and so long as I don’t have to risk life and limb by removing an egg from underneath a broody hen, we are provided with a plentiful supply of delicious free-range eggs.

My final task is to see to the tourterelle doves. These are gentle, friendly little chaps who accompany me around the pen cooing, and occasionally alighting gracefully on my shoulder or hand. They will peck lightly at their grain and generally behave in a courteous manner. 

With the animal husbandry finished for the moment I will dash off to the garden or vegetable patch to attack whichever project I might have on at the time. Aby likes to help out here and is a terrific digger. Unfortunately we share different views on where the holes should be dug. This means that I generally end up re-filling deep excavations in the border that has suddenly taken on the appearance of a minefield. Max collects garden tools and Hunter usually falls asleep on an otherwise healthy plant. There is definitely still some canine training to be done in this department if I’m ever going to realise my dreams of a perfectly maintained garden, and bounteous crops of vegetables.

As usual the afternoon has flown by, and all too soon the dogs tell me that it’s supper time. Hunter is the team speaking-clock here and starts the teeth-chattering routine, which everyone except him seems to be able to hear. We set off for the utility room in a flurry of fury excitement and are in variously full voice by the time I begin the mix. But this takes a moment of concentration. Although not as complicated as breakfast, and therefore not requiring the enormous brain of my husband, I still need to take care to dispense the correct medication to the correct dog. As they watch on in rapt concentration Max is so excited by the operation that he starts dribbling – an extremely unpleasant habit in my opinion. Aby tidies up her toys, and Hunter is now drumming away with his few remaining teeth, creating a sound like a flamenco dancer. Once dispensed, the food is inhaled in a flash and it’s back off to the field for another thunder around. Then I’ll leave them outside to play and make haste to the study.

I try to work until around 7.30pm. This is a period when all the major jobs have been done, and which ought to be nice and peaceful. My plan is to pick up any outstanding business correspondence, connect with my Facebook pals and try not to make a huge blunder on Twitter. I’ll also try to write. However the first self-inflicted barrier to this is social networking. As many of us know, with any networking group, and particularly one as active as WLM (We Love Memoirs) it’s easy to get carried away with the conviviality of the posts and comments that dash between members. I’m trying my best to maintain a disciplined approach with my involvement, but with so much fun to be had, and things to be learnt, it’s easy to get distracted. But I really do want to get on with my book. I will look at my pile of notes on Fat Dogs Part III which stare accusingly at me, and am just about to reach for them when I hear a thud. Brutus has woken up and jumped off the bed.

Brutus, like most cats, is extraordinarily single minded. He has his own agenda, and we all know this. He will stroll nonchalantly into the study, jump up and arrange himself on my lap. His tactics are brilliantly effective and I fall for them every time. He begins by being full of ‘lurve’, purring noisily and offering his exquisite head to be stroked. I love our cat – but I have work to do. I manage these initial demands of attention by typing with one hand, or even both if I can squash a jumper under his head to cushion its magnificence.

The subsequent change is at first subtle, then it becomes more insistent.  After a short snooze Brutus will stretch extravagantly, placing his paw, with claws slightly extended now, over my hand on the keyboard. Nothing excruciatingly painful, or bloodletting, but nevertheless the message is clear. It’s his way of saying ‘feed me!’ At first I’ll ignore this, fold his paw back and continue with my work. However, I know that I am now officially doomed. Brutus repeats this behaviour until bored with the situation and commences a loud cleaning session. He will then jump on my desk. I try to deflect this tactic by replacing him onto my lap, putting him on the floor, or sliding him to one side. But he will not give up. The final straw is when he lies across my keyboard or sends random computer commands by playing with my mouse. As someone who accidentally cyber self-harms on average once a day, I really don’t need any extra help from him. But in the end I know that my only damage limitation solution is to give in, and go and feed him. Work for the day abandoned, I go down and do the deed.

Our typical evening thereafter consists of a TV meal, some extra chores that didn’t get done earlier and several trips around the garden with Hunter to make sure that he remains watertight during the night. Then it’s finally time to go to bed and open our Kindles with the dinky lamps. A lovely snoozy feeling quickly overcomes me but I’m determined to read for at least a few minutes. Very soon, try as I might, my eyelids start to feel like lead weights, and I have to give in. Jack’s the same so we snuggle down to grab those precious moments of sleep before the nocturnal cycle (usually led by Brutus) commences.

So there you have it. Not exciting, not overly eventful, but our day is always full. Add to the typical day a trip to the market or shopping, impromptu visits from friends, neighbours, or strangers seeking permission to pick mushrooms, and then the occasional animal emergency, you might well understand how the hours always fly by. Would we trade it with our previous lives? Not a chance!

Footnote:

Fat Dogs and French Estates Part III is really needing to be written now, so I have decided to develop an extra disciplined approach to things. I, reluctantly, will change the frequency of my weekly ramblings by blog to one per month. So, on the first Saturday of each month I will update you with a current report of the happenings in our corner of France. How long my best intentions will last I have no idea, but it’s worth a go.

An average day in my life – Part two

Now freshly showered, I’m ready to attack the second part of my day which, on a non-shopping day, involves desk work. But the animals can’t/won’t be ignored, and there’s plenty to be done. Downstairs the dogs have become animated – they’re ready for breakfast and keen as mustard. As the moment approaches their behaviours change markedly. Max gambols around in circles stuffing as many gifts as he can in his mouth to offer the provider, while Aby flaps about arranging her toys in a nice tidy heap on her bed. Hunter may have lost many of his senses, but timing is not one of them and he gradually forms a canine barricade at the bottom of the stairs. Presumably this is his way of attracting attention to the meal-giver, although I’m uncertain as to whether falling over an ancient dog really does improve progress.

One might think that supplying a basic meal to dogs is a simple one – but not in our case. In our house tinctures and tablets play a vital, if bitter, role in the first repas of the day. And it has to be dealt with by an expert because the calculation of who gets what, and when, is no simple task, especially in Hunter’s case. To explain this I need to remind you of the state we found him in.

One day, on our way to the local auberge, we found Hunter flat out in the middle of a road. He’d been abandoned and was lying, too weak to move, slowly baking in the hot afternoon sun. He was horribly emaciated, covered in cuts, crawling with bugs and I’m afraid to say that his body odour was powerful enough to repel a skunk. Since Jack, my husband, isn’t a skunk, I asked him to carefully carry the poor dog to the side of the road and guard him whilst I drove back to the house to get some food and water. Of course we ended up taking him home.

Hunter lived through the night and we took him to our vet the next day for examination. In addition to the ‘superficials’, it emerged that he was suffering from several diseases, and playing host to a number of interestingly-named parasites which we rather lamely grouped under the global term of ‘worms’. But we all knew what they were. This had three significant outcomes. We parted with, (or “donated” as Jack puts it) a great deal of money. Our vet has always been very happy to see us but, now that Hunter is part of the process, he’s absolutely overjoyed. We have a huge great list of expensive potions and pills (including a rather pleasant smelling antiseptic shampoo) that must variously be administered to our amiable old hunting dog. Jack maintains he’s more expensive to keep going than a 30-year-old BMW 7 series, and he’s thinking about asking the vet to start running an air miles scheme.

Then there’s Max. Our loving little Australian Shepherd dog is still recovering from a serious leg injury, and he needs medication, together with natural products, to eliminate the inflammation in his knee, and help protect his joints from future damage.

Finally Aby, not to be outdone, enjoys a perfectly pink vitamin pill every morning, so much so that she looks decidedly put out when her regular dosage runs out. So with this complex set of prescriptions that would test even the brightest algorithm specialist, a mathematician is required. Jack, being an unsettlingly hyper-intelligent engineer, is just the man for the job. And he manages magnificently – up to a point.

Dog food storage and dining takes place in our utility room. It now resembles a chemist’s dispensary, and has recently benefitted from Jack’s additions of bar charts, spreadsheets, and I’m sure I saw a flowchart in there the other day. These regularly updated masterpieces list the name and purpose of drug, quantity and day of dosage (because different ones are given on different days) for each animal. The levels of precision are meticulous. Absolutely nothing can go wrong. Can it?

Usually I leave him to get on with preparing the canine breakfast. Aby and Max very quickly reach fever pitch and whine frantically, while Hunter stands, legs braced against his two fellow dodgems, swaying slightly and (for some extraordinary reason) his teeth start chattering. The first time I heard this I thought something awful had happened to one of the machines in the kitchen. But no – it was him. It’s quite a tremendous noise, which is emitted with the skill of a ventriloquist, because he retains his perfectly still hangdog expression with absolutely no lip movement whatsoever. The other point to note is that he only has a few teeth left in his mouth so quite how he manages to connect them and drum up such a din is a mystery. But he does. Unfortunately none of these animal antics do anything for my husband’s nerves, and things are apt to go downhill at the point of administration. Just as I’m about to settle down at my desk upstairs, my sense of purpose is often interrupted by a roar from Jack. Evidently there’s been a mixed reaction to the meal and I know exactly what’s just happened.

Hunter is fine, and stoically munches his way through mountains of tablets laced with dog food. Aby is too. She nibbles delicately at her meal, savouring the morsels with appropriate femininity and, upon completion, dabs her mouth elegantly with her imaginary napkin. Max on the other hand isn’t like that at all. Despite reassurances from our vet that his medication tastes like dog treats, Max doesn’t like them. He inhales the dog food, but has developed a unique knack of swirling the pill around his mouth, and surreptitiously spitting it out the ‘side door’ when he thinks Jack isn’t looking. But we’re on to him now, and close post-meal scrutiny of the floor tiles is required to check for incriminating evidence, and is often the cause of Jack losing his patience when he attempts to re-post the tablet in Max’s mouth.

I now know that I can ignore one human shout of rage, but when a second or even a third bellow follows, it’s clear that Max isn’t playing ball. I’ll rush down to the utility room and typically find Jack on his hands and knees wearing two or three pairs of reading glasses, searching for the half-sucked offender which has now cemented itself to a tile somewhere. His incandescent rage doesn’t seem to help his close vision at all, so I’ll take over, find the pill, peel it off the floor, and spend the next five minutes coaxing Max to swallow it. All this with Jack in the background muttering about Max being clearly defective and therefore ought to be sent back under warranty.

Eventually I succeed in re-administering Max’s tablet which, by now, is the size of a pinhead. Meanwhile, the time wasted has created some tension surrounding Hunter. Once he has finished eating and then drunk a vast quantity of water (courtesy of another of his diseases), he needs to go out immediately. And since his top speed is a slow shuffle, there’s a pressing need to avoid an embarrassing leakage from the waterworks department before he reaches the door. Thus far we’ve avoided an accident, but Max’s stubborn attitude towards his medicine is not helping at all.

If it’s Jack’s turn to take the dogs for their early morning walk, I’ll then leave him to it and can often hear him grumbling his way towards the field, moaning to the trees about the trials of living with idiot animals. On the whole, though, I’m fairly certain that this early breath of fresh air does him the world of good.

Retracing my steps to our study I sit down to open my emails. I’ll glance wistfully at my pile of notes for Fat Dogs… Part 3, but I haven’t got time to start writing at the moment. I put them aside and attend to business correspondence. Once complete, I turn to Facebook, and WLM (We Love Memoirs). This is done with a mixture of trepidation and enthusiasm because, being the least technically-minded person I know, things often go terribly wrong from this point on.

I don’t agree with my husband’s opinion that I suffer from “Technoplaegia” (implying massive technical incompetence), but I do accept that my ‘poke and hope’ computer strategy doesn’t always achieve the desired results. His unfair accusations were originally made during my early failed attempts at intricate moves like cutting and pasting documents, and also on occasions when I have managed to prod the button at an inopportune moment and accidentally sent a message to a complete stranger. Filing documents to this day remains a mystery, and I can spend hours ferreting around for a vital piece of information that isn’t where I thought it was.

Imagine my fear and apprehension, then, when it was suggested that I needed to become acquainted with Facebook. Jack was probably even more concerned, but his main anxiety was related to the health of my computer and his nerves in his capacity as local ‘help-desk’ rather than any altruistic thoughts about my plight.

My main reason for using Facebook is to access WLM. My learning curve with this new-fangled system has been desperately long, but, with the help of innumerable kind and forgiving people in this wonderful group, I’m finally getting the hang of the basics. Whilst I’m probably best described as a plodder, this hasn’t prevented me from enjoying the camaraderie of fellow members. To that end I can easily lose track of time as I follow the activities and news from others. But an even greater challenge has now presented itself.

Just a couple of weeks ago it was suggested, by an eternal optimist, that I should also set up a Twitter account. This sadly misguided person was someone who had assumed a level of computer savvy that simply does not exist. However, in a moment of rash confidence I decided that my new-found skills in social networking were entirely up to the task. It turns out they aren’t!

As a friend put it, “When you first start working with Twitter it’s very odd – it’s a bit like a weird parallel universe.” I couldn’t agree with her more. My early forays into this heady world have been nothing short of devastatingly bad. I am that person who thought a # lived exclusively on a music score sheet, and the @ was related to price lists, or email addresses.

As experienced users will know, messages posted on Twitter are not only liberally littered with these symbols, they are also often two-tone, blue and black. I’m certain that this is desperately significant, but to assume that I might have got the hang of it all would be woefully incorrect. If there really is a sentence intended in a Tweet, I frequently struggle to work out what it means, only to be regularly thwarted by techno-speak. As luck would have it yet another group of tremendously patient people have come to my aid. They have taken me by the avatar hand, and are currently guiding me through the basics of this high-tech maze. Their help is priceless. But the fact remains – I am still largely clueless. I have managed to construct a line or two, randomly decorating my messages with the odd symbol here and there, but the decision whether or not to ‘Tweet’, ‘Retweet’, ‘Favourite’ or ‘Follow’ is still largely lost on me. I know I can count on the cyber-experts to help, but do feel that their endless levels of goodwill must eventually come to an end.

Jack’s tolerance of electronic social interactions expired with e-mail. In fact he still glowers with intense hatred at his smart-phone, whenever it makes a noise of any kind. And he absolutely refuses to take any interest in the various social networking innovations. This has left me spending hours making, and attempting to ‘un-make’ mistakes with a learning-curve that shows no sign at all of evening out.

All of this takes time and before I know it – it’s lunchtime. I’m usually alerted to this by the dogs. Their internal clocks are remarkably accurate, and they are hungry. I get up from my desk, glance wistfully at my untouched notes for book three, and go down to prepare our meal.

Progression to the kitchen is different to breakfast, and the pattern is always the same. Aby, dish cloth in paw, bounds enthusiastically up the stairs to meet me. Max is usually dragging my wellie around the house, which he bashes against the walls in his attempts to present it to me in exchange for a snack. And Hunter is standing in the middle of the kitchen waiting patiently for something, although he can’t quite remember what it is. There’s absolutely no point in me doing anything about cooking our lunch until they are dealt with. So off I go to the dispensary and produce their favourite pigs’ ears, which are received with distracted delight.

Cooking on my lovely range is a joy, but can also end up as a crowded affair. After a few minutes I am gradually re-joined by the dogs and sometimes Brutus the cat (on chicken or fish-recipe days), and we jointly produce something that is fit for humans. Happily, so long as meat is involved, Jack is very easy to please – which is just as well because he is more often than not served ‘speed-food’. It may be nutritious, but does lack the finesse of a dedicated home-maker. However, on those days where he has had to deal with acute animal problems, or another of my computer crashes, I’ll pacify him with one of his favourites. After all, what red-blooded Englishman doesn’t enjoy a healthy portion of Toad in the Hole?

 With the meal served, I sit down to eat, and reflect on my morning which has resulted in a mixture of abject technical failures and the odd tentative success. Amazingly, half the day has gone already. There’s something I desperately want to do, but will my afternoon activities allow this? I’m really not sure.

An average day in my life – Part one

In spite of living in the middle of nowhere, we do seem to lead very busy lives. Not in the:

 “Arrrgh I’m late for work, where are the kids? Noooo… Look at the time – now we’re late for school too. Oh damn, I’ve forgotten to put the cat… Did I say cat? No, rubbish out for the bin men!”  

Sort of a way. Ours is different altogether, and actually the reasons aren’t usually associated with humans at all. With a notable absence of cities, schools and office buildings, it might therefore be hard to guess why our days zip past so quickly. So what really happens during an average 24 hour period here?

Our nights are usually quite active, but not for reasons that one might imagine, and it involves one of our animals. Brutus, our lovable moggy, alternates between clandestine stalkings,

and sharing my pillow when an emergency nap is required. Generally once, and sometimes twice each night, despite being sound asleep, we’re rudely jerked into consciousness by the sound of a not-so-stealthy pounding up the stairs. We instantly know who it is. But just to confirm our worst fears, the velvety thuds are followed by a succession of mews that rapidly turn into downright meows. This tells us that Brutus has re-entered the building, and requires immediate attention. Jack, knowing what is about to happen, finds the whole process entirely unsatisfactory. It was only the other night when he groaned that it was like trying to sleep in a cat-ridden Thai Buddhist temple (which I’m sure it isn’t), before rolling over and dropping back off to sleep. Then again I can’t say I blame him for this attitude, cat-visits aren’t everyone’s cup of tea.

You might now be thinking, ‘Why on earth don’t they close the bedroom door? Simple – job done!’ I promise you that we have tried that already, but our attempts were quickly foiled. Brutus took an extremely dim view of our clumsy tactic, and developed a masterful and dastardly plan to deal with the situation. On arriving at the closed door in the middle of the night, he proceeded to scratch violently at the paintwork. This was accompanied by a prolonged session of wailing like a distressed baby until, close to hysteria ourselves, we finally let him in. A lengthy session of water-boarding might have been kinder on our nerves during those witching hours. So, being effectively powerless to withstand such successful feline counter-measures, and having some concerns for our door, we have no other option but to give him free rein.

Somewhere between 2 and 4am Brutus usually strolls in, lumbers on the bed and takes his time to find the most suitable spot on the duvet. He is, of course, awake because he’s normally in charge of the night-shift, but these duties can tire even the fittest cat. Eventually satisfied with position one, and being admirably fastidious about personal hygiene, the next job is to see to his ablutions. This is quite a noisy affair involving a mixture of throaty purrs, licks, ‘scrunchels’ and stretches. Not the stuff of human sweet dreams at all. Once that’s dealt with, and the nocturnal detritus has been scattered all over the bed, he’s ready to settle down. A new, cosier position is needed for this. In the winter it’s usually on top of my head which seems to be warm and, up to a point, provides a constant warm air-flow. But during the summer months he’ll switch to a position between Jack and I, where he’ll extend his significant bulk across all available pillows. Several grumbles, grunts and a short pillow-duel later, I inevitably find myself with my head suspended between a tiny corner of the pillow and the mattress.

Our fat cat will be lying next to me in an elevated position, vibrating contentedly as he purrs his way into an uninterrupted sleep. Exhausted and disgruntled, I slip back into a fitful doze.

Living where we do in the countryside, alarm clocks are never needed. At exactly the same time, during the summer months we’re awakened by a clamour of noise coming from outside. Bleary-eyed, with a stiff neck and bags under my eyes the size of tyres, I know it’s dead on 5am. The birds have woken up! Tiny though they may be, our cock quail birds are absolutely full of beans. Their triumphant, shrill calls pack a heck of a punch in the vocals department, and cut through the air like a power drill. Not to be outdone, the cockerels crow to their girls and to everyone else in the area. But that’s not all. Our pheasants are awake too, and decide to join in this disorderly morning chorus. So these signals, together with our decidedly less raucous garden birds, mean the arrival of a new day, and the commencement our first set of animal duties. But getting cracking on these is not always that easy. 

Making it downstairs to the kitchen can be a bit of a job because, on hearing the first foot fall, the steps suddenly transform into an escalator of fur. 

For personal safety reasons I take the precaution of creeping down as silently as I can in an attempt to make it to the bottom before I’m discovered. But my ruse never works. One creak of a step and I’m rumbled. Aby and Max bound towards me, forming a canine welcoming party, and greet me like a long-lost friend. I nearly make it, but such is their level of joy at seeing me after all those hours, that I quickly end up pinned to the bottom half of the staircase, too weak to withstand their affectionate onslaught. I eventually do peel them off, and fight my way towards the kettle. The only thing on my mind now is that essential morning cuppa to help revive my energies. But progress is painfully slow.

At this stage Hunter still hasn’t joined in the greetings. That’s because he’s stone deaf, and luckily hasn’t heard anything at all. Once satisfied with the staircase cuddles session, Aby transforms into a creature manifesting sweetness itself. She’ll twitter coyly around the edges, generally being desperately feminine. I swear that if she was given a mop and duster, she’d know exactly what to do with them. However, she does have one extremely unfortunate way of demonstrating her undying love for everyone which we can’t seem to stop. Aby will run full tilt at the target person, and plunge her head between their legs. We’re used to it now, but it was this ingratiating gesture that nearly upended poor old Madame Benedict one day, and caused her to turn into a human parachute, as her skirt was inflated by a mass of deliriously happy Australian Shepherd dog. To her absolute credit she managed to remain upright, only gasping “Oh là là” a couple of times, while I rummaged around her nether regions in my attempts to recover our recalcitrant animal.

Max manifests his affections quite differently, but these can be equally challenging. For some reason it’s very important for him to have something in his mouth. If he doesn’t have a dog toy, he’ll lovingly grab at whatever’s handy, which at that time of the morning is usually my dressing gown tie. This leads to a tug of war which he thinks is a super fun early game. During these regular tussles I’ve often reflected on how surprisingly strong he is. Ignoring my sleepy pleas of “leave!” he’ll yank a lump of material, and attempt to drag me, sliding, across the floor as I hang on to my modesty. It’s surprising how little friction a slipper can generate in these situations. I try to stop myself from unravelling completely, and finally summon up the energy to issue a curt obedience-related command which gets him to give up the game. But then, still deeply full of love, he’ll swipe me with a great big lick. This is only marginally less dreadful than the dressing gown mêlée, but every time I shout at him to “stoppit” he’ll peel back his lips, give me a huge toothy smile, and start again. In these circumstances it can be difficult to remain firm.

Already a little jaded, and with very damp calves, I finally make it to the kettle. Hunter, somehow alerted by the movement, then wakes up and comes staggering towards me. This causes great tension all round. Hunter is ancient, and we now know to our cost that when he wakes up, he needs to go outside – immediately! Kettle and tea for the time being abandoned, I about turn and direct Hunter (Max once again attached to my dressing gown), and bouncy Aby to the door. Whatever the weather the door is flung open and out pour the dogs to relieve themselves, and join in with the morning chorus. This is my moment. I take a quick peek at the assembled company, and close the door on our canine family members. Bliss!

I’m definitely in need to my first cup of tea now. I take a second to re-wrap myself and head steadfastly towards the kettle, relishing the thought of a light breakfast sans animaux. But life’s not like that here. Just as I’m collecting my mug, there’ll be an imploring meow that comes from behind me. Brutus, wonderfully refreshed from a comfortable sleep is halfway down the stairs, stretching luxuriantly along three steps. I’m pretty sick of him at this stage so continue with the simplest of morning tasks. I’ve just about managed to click the kettle on when he materialises, now winding around my legs. It's no good, I know to my cost that failure to see to his breakfast needs instantly, will end up in a claw-sharpening session on my slippers. I stop what I'm doing, leave the kettle to boil, and dutifully follow the cat to his dish.

Finally, finally I’m ready to sit down. I now have my tea, my yoghurt and my computer tablet which is bursting to share the headlines of the day. I raise my mug wearily to my lips, ready to savour the elixir of life that comes in small perforated bags from Yorkshire, when bang! I should be shocked but I’m not. Max has been working on his door-opening techniques, but hasn’t quite got to grips with them yet. Instead he head-butts it, a practice he apparently hopes might do the trick instead. Everyone loves a trier. I look round to see three dogs peering hopefully at me, intent on joining in with breakfast. I know that there’ll be no peace for the door unless I do something, so up I get again, let them in and they settle down for a millisecond until Jack comes down. Then the welcome party quickly regroups to produce a repeat performance around him.

With breakfast eventually done and dusted, I mildly wonder whether I felt any different when I was on the school run. Those days seemed pretty hectic too. But it’s already getting towards 7.30am now, and I’ve no idea how it got that late so quickly. Partly revived, I rush upstairs, jump in the shower and prepare myself for the next part of the day.

I’ll bring the second part to you next week. In the meantime I reflect on whether I’d change these animal-related antics for a leisurely life in the city? That’s easy – no I would not!