Launching Fat Dogs and French Estates Part IV

I promised to let as many folks know as possible, so just in case you weren’t aware (and apologies if you are)...it’s official, my Fatties are back!

Our adventures resume where they left off in Fat Dogs 3. You’ll read more about old friends and acquaintances, and meet new people along the way. One or two of these turned out to be tricky customers who end up testing Jack’s patience to the max. Mind you, that’s not overly difficult. Others, though, were gems.

One such couple, Jacques and Murielle, are so delightfully nutty we now look forward to each meeting, wondering whether their latest stories can possibly better their last. They always do.

For this preview snippet, try to imagine yourself at our local auberge, when Jacques held up his hand.

“We have a hunting story,” he said.

“Please tell us,” replied Jack. “I’m sure it’ll be much more interesting than the drivel we’ve been listening to recently.”

“Well, I was in the bath,” announced Murielle.

That stopped us in our tracks.

“Oh?” we replied in unison.

“Yes. And a fox walked in.”

“Did it? Are you sure?”

“Yes, a big one. Jacques! I shouted, there's a fox in my bathroom.”

“You are mad! I replied,” cried Jacques, warming to his role.

“But there is! It’s standing looking at me.”

“So,” continued Jacques, “I rushed in, of course, convinced she had gone crazy, but no! there it was, a big fox!”

“Really?”

“Yes! I told her to stay there and went to fetch my shotgun…”

The conclusion to this extraordinary yarn was as eccentric as the beginning.

I also tell you lots of stories about animals. Sam, of course, you know, but not all. Naughty Ginger, for example, is a newcomer. For this next extract, you’ll just have to remember how much Jack ‘dislikes’ animals…

Jack held the kitten at head height and began lecturing it about mountain climbing security measures. The kitten studied him, then extended a tiny paw and patted his nose. He brought it closer still.

“It’s the first time I’ve heard it,” he chuckled.

“What?” I asked, reaching for the camera.

“It’s purring. It’s purring like a little vintage tractor.”

“Awww, you big softy.”

Jack gently lowered it to his knee, where it contentedly played climbing games at a more sensible level.

Poor gruff Jack. He was putty in that kitten’s paws.

  

Our adventures take twists and painful turns. Drama was never far away.

The forest gate swung open and out hurtled the Polish team’s truck in a cloud of dust. It ground to a halt next to us. One of the men was propped-up by a colleague in the cargo area.

“Przepraszam, gdzie znajduje się szpital?” cried the driver.

We had absolutely no idea what he had said. We paused, helpless.

He tried again.

“Szpital. Szpital! Erm…” he paused, searching for the right words.

“Leon jest ranny, źle krwawi... Zranił się w nogę.”

This was getting us nowhere.

The man was frantic. We shrugged, wanting to help, but couldn’t work out what the problem was. He pointed to his colleague, beckoning urgently. We rushed over to find the man bleeding copiously from a leg wound.

“Hospital. Now!” cried Jack.

So that’s enough tasters from me. The book is published on 1st February, but you can preorder a Kindle copy now using this link. (A heartfelt thank-you if you already have.)

http://bit.ly/2GFGkA6

I’m so excited about sharing our latest escapades with you and look forward to hearing your comments. As you’ll find in Fat Dogs and French Estates Part IV, there’s never a dull moment in our sleepy corner of France. I just hope it stays that way!

French Reflections 2018

Here we are, already at the beginning of a new year. Can you believe it? 2018 seemed to fly by. Part of me wonders why, but when I think of all the stuff that happened, there’s no wonder I blinked and nearly missed it. Here’s a highlight from each month. 

January 2018

Carol singing takes place in the first or second week of January. Incongruous, but then we do live in a quaint part of France. It involves several churches in the same diocese and is a highly organised affair. Sometimes. 

As the bells chime 2.30 pm-ish, a band of ‘volunteer’ singers burst into song in church one. Not everyone has the latest carol sheet, so it’s

quite normal for one or two to launch into an entirely different piece. Nevertheless, a small congregation encourages us through the performance, occasionally wincing at the tone-deaf enthusiast with an unusually loud voice.

Our short recital ends, we pile into cars, and singers plus congregation travel in convoy to the next church. The process is repeated with double the numbers. And so it goes on until we reach the final church. Inevitably, some of the congregation (and one or two carollers) have been lost along the way. They still have last year’s order of play and are sitting in a freezing cold church wondering where everyone is.  

The final venue is always the principal church in the diocese. By now we’re very late. This church has proper singers with a proper choir mistress. And she’s very severe. Those who can still sing are allowed to join her ranks while the keens-but-croaky are sent to the congregation. 

Supporters have swelled to nearly a hundred now and are rewarded by a stirring concert from a group who have been given the same carols and sing them in the same order. Our afternoon ends with refreshments. It’s consistent. The worst coffee in the world washes down slabs of the best homemade cakes I have ever tasted. It’s a perfect start to the year.

February

This month marks the first major festivity. The annual Spectacle Vivant (performing arts event). Last year we went for the first time and loved it. There was no way I was going to pass up the opportunity to return. Unfortunately, Jack, my husband, wasn’t so keen. 

“Do we really have to go?” 

“Yes, of course, we had a great time, you even enjoyed the meal.”

“I’m sure I didn’t.”

The event was enticingly titled: Carnaval de Venise. We arrived and walked into a secretive world of the masked ball. A large troupe of performers strolled about the room wearing extraordinarily lavish costumes. There were china whites, gold leaf, rich velvets, satins and feathers. Pantaloons, cage crinoline dresses, taffeta and organza, it was impossible not to be impressed.

The masked entertainers sashayed to mystique charged baroque rhythms. They posed for photos, videos too. They knew they presented an incredible spectacle and played their inscrutable parts effortlessly. After a final float they glided off, leaving a trail of delicious privacy behind, and a roomful of delighted diners. It was another stunning event.

March

He’s nutty, he’s adorable, and you may have come across him in my Fat Dogs books. It’s Jean-Luc, our artisan painter and decorator. Only this month he was involved in his other passion, pruning vines. 

It’s not just the admiration I have for his expertise, it’s the wonderfully eccentric way he executes the process, last year being typical of his behaviour.

Assuming a forensic scientist approach, he fell to his knees and eyeballed our vines. Reading glasses were put on, removed, and replaced. Wagging his head he sucked his breath, trying to determine the best course of action. 

“Là? Ou là?” he asked himself, pointing his instrument at the clipping options. Once the decision was made, that was that. His secateurs whipped into action, and the deeds were done.

We surveyed the result. What used to be a collection of knotty vines with multiple arms wound around wire supports, was now a line of knobbly-kneed stumps. It may have looked like a plant war zone, but he’d done it again. Those vines produced oodles of grapes.

April

In return for agreeing to try a new coiffeuse in the distant city, Montauban, my sister promised to stand me ‘a fab’ lunch. 

After a horrifically long salon session, we walked through a passage into a tiny quadrangle. Ahead was a deliciously inviting eatery called Crumble Tea. The intimate dining area was filled with a hotchpotch of tables, cushioned chairs and cosy bench seats. It was just like home.

The proprietor directed us to a table lit with a cute chintz lamp. Everything was homemade here, she said, describing each menu choice. In the end, I plumped for onion soup, side salad and ham-filled croissant. 

Mammoth portions soon arrived. Everything was a taste sensation and especially the chunky soup. Smoked, caramelised onions in a broth laced with white wine and Cognac, the melted, toasted cheese on top made it a culinary triumph. Each mouthful yielded comfort, quickly putting my coiffure experiences into a proper perspective.

Madame reappeared to tickle our taste buds with her list of puds. Again, agonisingly difficult though it was, the complicated sounding sponge cake with several different fruits inside was the clincher. We munched our ways through, washing each delectable mouthful down with a sip of exotic tea. What a treat!

May
“I want to buy my neighbour a pair of peacocks,” announced Di.

“Really?”

“Yep. All you have to do is find a breeder, and we’ll nip over and buy a couple.” 

Still in denial about the whole process, I found one. We drove to the department, Gers, to meet monsieur. He was dead keen.

“You have come at exactly the right time,” he said, with a parrot on his shoulder, and pointing at a peacock fanning its tail feathers. “The Javanese males are beginning their courting displays.”

 

We were entranced by the billowing tail feathers covered in blue-green eyes. Soon other males began to sense spring was in the air. Many copied, outshining the finesse of their competitors next door.

The next pen contained Sri Lankan blues. The males’ iridescent cobalt heads and necks dazzled, outdone only by their fabulous tails as they were gradually unfurled and fanned alluringly at their mates.

“These birds are rustic,” monsieur explained, “they can withstand hard winters. You can buy this pair if you want, they are five years old.”

I duly translated to Di, whose eyebrows shot to her hairline.

“Have you seen the length of its tail?” she hissed. “We’ll never get it in the car! Ask him if he has any six-monthers that’ll fit into a normal bird carrier.” 

Sadly there was no prospect of buying youngsters from monsieur.

June

This month was all about vehicles – and mud. We had experienced abnormally wet weather. The heavens opened in mid-December and forgot to stop. Flash floods, deluges, mudslides, we had the lot.

Happily, there were one or two respite days. As the sun peeped through soggy clouds, we decided to spend the evening nature watching. With Jack driving our ageing 4x4 Range Rover, we shimmied and skidded into the forest to my favourite observation hide. 

We approached a level surface. Mud spats flew, the tyres spun, forward movement ceased. Sticky stuff, clay-based soil. The car glued itself to the mud. It was stuck. 

Jack decided to use the Jobber’s (4x4 utility vehicle) winch to pull it out. The Jobber was fetched, winch hook wrapped around a tree and tow rope attached to the car. Point of information here: Range Rovers are hefty vehicles.

As the tow rope and winch cable took up the strain, it was clear something had to give. It wasn’t the Range Rover, or the tree. A rifle crack twang signified the end of the cable as the hawser snapped. This was awkward. 

“H’m thought that might happen,” Jack mused, sounding remarkably balanced under the circumstances.

With nothing else to try, we abandoned the car to the forces of nature overnight.

The following day brought Nathan, our French forester. We explained the situation.

“Pas de problème,” he quietly murmured. Nathan, practically born on his tractor, has spent years wielding it around the forest pathways. It would drag the car out in no time at all, he said.

We returned to find the Range Rover settled further in the mud. To avoid dragging it deeper into the sludge, the tractor had to pull the vehicle upwards. Easy-peasy, Nathan had a lovely big chain that would yank it out in moments.

“Merde!” (bit sweary), Nathan exclaimed, morosely surveying his sunken charger. The tractor had joined the fate of the Range Rover and was well and truly stuck. Now we were in a pickle. We had nothing else that could attempt a tow and were fast running out of vehicles.

Luckily a farmer friend came to our rescue. Gilles arrived in his tractor. It was positively enormous. Pulling into the carpark of stranded vehicles and muddy dogs, he threw open the cab door and zoomed down the ladder.

Absolute gent that he is, Gilles condoled about the general merde-ness of the conditions. He assured us he’d have our vehicles on terra firma in no time at all. And he did.

July

And it was back to the quest for buying unusual fowl for Di’s neighbour. I had been told about a lady who bred exotic geese. With the advantage of having normal length tails, they sounded just the job. 

We drove to a ramshackle farm near Lauzerte. Ready to do business, madame took us into the first barn. We followed the sounds of cheeps through the splintered doorframe into the gloomy interior.

“Voici le premier groupe,” said madame, pointing towards a cluster of small creatures.

Masses of goslings waddled around on a thick bed of sweet-smelling straw. Fluffy, tubby, with strange little knobbly heads and teeny-tiny wings, they were beyond adorable. After several ahhs, I left Di to have a bash at conversing in French with madame and wandered into the adjoining barn.

This housed two even larger groups of goslings. It was impossible to count the closely-packed mini-honkers, but there must have been hundreds of them. I admired these wonderfully healthy animals. It was clear where madame spent her money.

I re-joined madame, and Di, who was now looking anxious.

“We’ve got ours. Erm, she grabbed them by their necks and stuck them in this box. Hope they’re okay.”

“Oh right, well, perhaps that’s the way they should be handled.”

“You’ll have to ask about how to look after them, I haven’t got a clue what she said.”

I peered into the box at four indignant, knobbly-headed shriekers and discussed husbandry requirements with madame. She had selected 10-day-old chicks, and they were already whoppers, nicely chubby and covered in yellow and buff-coloured down. They were going to be perfect. And they were.

August

I had started some weeks earlier, but this month saw the main work on my shutter and garage door project. It was one of those where, up to my elbows in wood glue and sawdust, I felt a tad daunted. Nevertheless, they were badly in need of some TLC, so I had to get stuck in.

Every piece was removed, reminding us that old shutters weigh a ton. Each was washed. Rotten parts were replaced by carpenter Jack. Each was hand sanded, machine sanded, mended where necessary and washed again.

Ready for painting, I relished the task. For a while anyway. Two coats on each side, four for the new sections, my enthusiasm eventually began to wane, as did the dogs’, who morosely saw many walk opportunities disappear into the murk of a paint pot. I’ll always be grateful to my cheerleading Facebook pals who encouraged me to crack on and complete the task. The end result may not be perfect, but they’ll do nicely for the next 10 years.

September

Holiday-averse Jack finally agreed to us having a short break. Our destination was Capbreton.

Aby and Max, our two Australian Shepherds, came too. Extra bouncy, super affectionate, and devoted swimmers, our mutts have never seen sand before. With mercifully few sun seekers around, we headed off to la plage. 

Our mutts didn’t know what had hit them. Leaping around, making trial holes, testing shells for crunch value, they dashed randomly across the beach towards the surf. At this point, I started getting nervous thoughts. Should I have packed canine lifebelts? What if Aby decides to say hello to that surfer – waaay out at sea? And Max, once he starts swimming…will he stop?  How far away is America anyway? Luckily help was at hand.

A small breaker doused them as they were in mid snuffle. And that was it for mademoiselle Aby. If a dog could pout, she would. For her, it was strictly toe-depth only after that. Max was equally shocked but braver. He trotted in and out, tried to eat the milky surf – bad idea – and then settled for paddling.

The next morning, with the beach to ourselves I took the dogs for a tennis ball workout. As someone who has a clinical problem with the simple technique of throwing, I should have pointed away from the waterline. I’ll admit there are now two or three castaways en route across the ocean. Happily, I had back-up. Frisbees.

Soon it was time to go, one last Frisbee session, and the discovery of a sandcastle. Aby eyed it suspiciously, wondering how the moles in Capbreton managed to make such tidy hills. Max blundered up soon after, forgot to stop, and that was that. No more sandcastle.

We said goodbye to those sea views, that sea air and took our mutts back home. Were they confirmed seadogs now? Perhaps not surfers, but they did love those beaches!

October

The month of my birthday and the present I’d wanted for ages. A Lensball. It is an ultra-clear sphere made out of K9 crystal. It is an incredibly hard, scratch resistant material most commonly used in lenses and optics. The idea is for the wannabe arty photographer to capture breath-taking images.

On my first photo session, I enthusiastically grabbed my Lensball with its dinky crystal base. I immediately dropped the base, chipped it, disproving the ‘near invincible’ claim, but luckily not the ball itself. I haven’t played as much as I would like, and my first forays have been dead amateur rather than spectacular. I shall be practising much more this year. 

November

Early one morning we heard pitiful meows in the garden. Real gut-wrenchers. We went out to find a scrawny-looking black and white Felix cat clinging to the top of a spindly tree. 

Jack climbed up to rescue the howling moggy, who decided it wasn’t so keen on being rescued after all. A short tussle ensued followed by success. Any thanks from the stuck one? Noooo. After unstapling itself from his chest, the skinny survivor fled into the forest. And that was that. Or so we thought.

 A couple of days later Jack heard plaintive mewing behind the woodpile. We peered into the tiny gap between the logs and wall, and sure enough, those same gorgeous golden eyes stared back.

We trapped the youngster and brought her into our home. A trip to the vet confirmed that she had been part-socialised but was fearful, especially of men. She was emaciated and covered in fleas. Aged around six or seven months, it seemed clear that she had been dumped in the woods. We named her Cleo.

Today is a different story for this fragile young animal. Still often scared stiff, she is gradually learning how to play, how to interact with humans and has gained lots of weight. Our latest newcomer to the family is also helping, and it is she who was our final highlight of the year.

December
Christmas started off as planned, tamely. Even the turkey obliged, giving us reason to celebrate a happy family feast. Later on, Di and I took the dogs for a walk and returned to find a family at our door. Strange, since we live in the middle of nowhere.

The lady was with her children. They’d found a little one abandoned while walking in our woods, she said. A little what? I wondered, alarmed. 

“Here it is, can you keep it?” she asked.

Her son came forward and plonked the bundle in my arms. With that, they quickly left.

A kitten!

Christmas night saw Aby and Max in a tiz, Cleo having a hissy fit and Brutus, our adult cat, giving us a ‘you lot are lost causes’ look before retiring under the bed. And the kitten? It settled right in. 

Mindless of Christmas tree lights, ignoring the TV and loving the attention, it precociously played on us all evening before zonking out on my lap.

I took it to the vet for a once-over. Dr Arnaud told me it was a female between two and three months old. It was undernourished but aside from that in excellent health. He added that it was well socialised and was sure it had been discarded. 

“Are you prepared to keep it?” he asked. 

I think he knew the answer.

In spite of being a female, we named our newcomer Claus. She’s already running us ragged, and we adore her.

So there you have it. 2018 was another unforgettable year, one that reminded me how lucky we are to live here in this magical corner of France. And it was one brilliantly supported by you. Thank you so much for that. I sincerely hope 2019 brings health, happiness and lots of fun for all of us.  

Cleo

Early one morning we heard pitiful meows in the garden. Real gut-wrenching mews. We went out to explore and found a scrawny-looking black and white Felix cat clinging to the top of a spindly tree. Jack, my husband (wannabe animal-hater – not) sighed, he knew what to do. Off he went, grumbling about the general dimness of animals, to collect his longest ladder.

Unfortunately for him, the tree was inconveniently growing on the edge of the moat, so positioning the ladder was tricky. And precarious. Nevertheless, he climbed up to rescue the howling moggy, who decided it wasn’t so keen on being rescued after all. A short tussle ensued, more swearing, followed by success. Any thanks from the stuck one? Noooo. After un-stapling itself from his chest, the skinny survivor fled into the forest. And that was that. Or so we thought. 

A couple of days later Jack heard plaintive mewing behind the woodpile. We peered into the tiny gap between the logs and wall, and sure enough, those same gorgeous golden eyes stared back.

At this stage, we were unsure whether it was a feral or abandoned kitten. Two things were certain: it was terrified and horribly emaciated. We put out food and returned to the house to watch from our security camera screen. After a few minutes, there was a furtive movement. One tentative paw at a time, it crept out. The youngster gobbled up every scrap and quickly reversed back to its nook.

We continued our routine for a few days, chatting to the crying woodpile, or rafters, never getting any closer to catching it. Nonetheless, we were hooked. Those mews coming from that scruffy cutie were so sad, we were determined to try and help. Finally, enough was enough. We would carry on feeding it, but if it was a feral cat the least we could do was have it neutered.

Capture was much easier than expected. All it took was a bowl of food in the box trap and leaving it in peace. Ten minutes later our quarry was in. I whisked the panicking little one to the vet who performed surgery that day.   

I returned to be told we had a young female – with a great pair of lungs! Shouting above the din, the vet estimated her age at about six months old and although pretty wild, she had probably been abandoned. We live in the middle of nowhere, so if that were the case, she must have been dumped. I looked at the vulnerable mite, just skin and bones and covered in fleas. The very thought of it was awful. If the vet’s theory was correct, she must have been living rough for a while and didn’t look equipped with the energy to continue much longer.

The vet supplied flea and worming meds and advised us to keep her away from our other animals until she had recovered from the trauma of surgery and capture. We set up a dog cage with a kitten igloo in the corner of our least-used room and opened the door. She plunged into the dark cocoon and wrapped herself into a ball.

Every day we stroked her, trying to win her confidence. She never fought or hissed, but was dead scared, especially of Jack. We wondered whether she had ever been struck by a man. We’ll never know, but the sight of her cowering was heart-rending.

By the fifth day, something magical happened. As I was stroking the side of her head, she looked steadily at me, pressed against my hand, rolled on her side and began to purr. A deep emotion-filled thrumble. Our damaged youngster had turned a corner.

But there was still a problem with Jack. She was so scared. He (you know, the animal-hater) spent hours with her. He fed her, yakked to her about world events...as you do, always gently stroking her. Although still nervous and very head shy, she gradually started to realise he wasn’t going to mistreat her. His patience was beginning to pay off.

Very quickly she grabbed our hearts and needed a name. We’ve always lumbered our cats with epic names. We already have ex-feral gentle giant, Brutus, so she became Cleopatra. It seemed historically apt, well, nearly.    

Next, our Australian Shepherd dogs wanted to be introduced. Aby took one look, sniffed, evidently considered Cleo unworthy of playing Frisbee, and wandered off. Max, on the other hand, wanted to share his fave toy with her. Under strict instructions not to bash her by accident, he was introduced. Strangely, they immediately got on well (including the presented toy), which further supported the idea that Cleo was not feral. Mind you, it could have been because she thought Max was a big version of her...same colours an’ all. Who knows?

When her stitches were due to be removed, I took Cleo to see Dr Arnaud, our vet, to have a thorough health check and vaccination. First he double-checked for ID, but of course, there was nothing. Still skinny as can be, she weighed in at just under two kilos (four and a bit pounds). Aside from that, she was fit and well. Throughout the examination, she was gentle as can be, never fighting despite being wide-eyed with fear and a bit meowy. I left with the confidence that we were doing the right thing.

With a clean bill of health, we could open the cage door. It took a few days for her to come out, but she made it, only to develop a new problem which sent her back into hiding. One morning a big lump appeared on one of Cleo’s hips. She was very sensitive to it being touched and stopped eating. So guess what? Another trip to the vets.

Back we went to be told the lump, now half the size of a golf ball was an abscess. It was likely to have been caused by a foreign body in her system, possibly a splinter which had worked its way out. No wonder she had been so sore! The swelling was drained, Cleo was given an antibiotic injection, and we left loaded with yet more meds.

Back at home and Cleo coped with her tablets brilliantly, and quickly regained her health. Her coat began to shine, and she allowed us to stroke her all over. 

Cleo's next socialising encounter, the biggest challenge yet, was with Brutus, our tabby cat.  

Brutus may be huge and look ferocious, but he is a great big fluffy wuss. At first, he was terrified of her. Giving us filthy looks, he refused to go into Cleo’s room and growled from afar. For her part, Cleo cowered in her igloo, hissing and spitting at the sight of a monster moggy at least three times her size. And who could blame her?

Progress since then has been slow but sure. Cleo eventually plucked up the courage to venture out of her secure cage. We took it down and replaced it with a small cat tree in a different part of the room next to her igloo. She loved it so much I bought her a bigger version. She must have thought I was bonkers the day I built it – as a matter of fact, Jack did too. After a couple of days staring at it owl-eyed, Cleo coyly started testing new soft textures, new hidey-holes and chunkier scratch posts. Apparently, they were all fab.

Next came toys. Cleo obviously had no idea what they were all about. She looked quizzically at me when I swung the feathery, rattley ball, wondering what was going on. Shyly, she wound herself around a chair towards them. Then stopped. Curiosity got the better of her, and she started playing gently. Another mini-triumph.  

Cleo is now getting a bit bolder. She meows her head off for food, padding nervously into the hall when Jack comes to deliver it – along with current affairs updates. She still scares easily, although runs away less often when we approach her, and she loves our morning snuggles on my fleecy dressing gown.

Cleo also loves the manky old sheepskin rug and settee to stretch out on. That girl eats three meals a day but still takes long and skinny to a whole new level. She and I have lots of cuddles, and despite everything we have put her through, is slowly discovering that humans can be nice after all. Animal-wise, she especially loves Max. He sits in front of her beaming as she swats him gently with kitten paws.

Things are calming down with Brutus too. Brutus has decided he’s not going to be savaged by a baby Amazon and regularly sits in Cleo’s room. He’s still getting hissed at, but we’re confident they’ll end up best of friends. Just last night they almost booped noses. Cleo withdrew at the last minute and spat, suddenly scared. Brutus didn’t flinch. He just sat and gave her one of his slow blinks. My heart melted.

We’re now almost a month on from Cleo’s last vet visit and this week sees a return for her booster vaccination. Her next stage will be to pluck up courage to explore the house and join the rest of the family. She’s come so far so fast we’re sure that won’t be too long – although I suspect she won’t be testing the great outdoors for a while yet.

Our little golden-eyed girl is putting on a bit more weight every day, her fur is re-growing, and she is blossoming into a gorgeous feline beauty. We have no idea where she came from or what happened to her. All that matters is she needed our help, and we were happy to give it. Cleo is now a permanent member of the family, and we all adore her.  

Gone Medieval

Did my misanthropic husband, Jack, fancy going to a fete celebrating medieval life in our part of France? No, of course not. Did I persuade him to go? Yes, but there were caveats. There would be a strict time limit to our attendance, and we would have lunch at his favourite (quiet, barely anyone there at all) restaurant on the way home. Deal.

Di, my sister, joined us and we set out early on a hot morning to our venue, Belleperche Abbey. I’d read about this place and was dying to visit.

Established in 1143 on the banks of the Garonne, Belleperche was founded by the Argombat knights. In association with other families, they affiliated it to the Cistercian order to create a large establishment, which they hoped to profit from.

Belleperche became one of the wealthiest abbeys in the south of France during the 13th century. It owned between 8000 and 9000 hectares (19,768 – 22,239 acres) of land and specialised in wine production, cattle, horse and mule breeding. But it wasn’t all plain sailing.

Historical events played their part in the Abbey’s relative success, the most significant of which occurred during the French Revolution.  Monks’ estates belonging to the French church were confiscated as national property, and the monks moved from the premises in 1791. Belleperche was auctioned off and owned by a succession of private buyers.

In 1983, a project to turn the central portion into a nightclub unsurprisingly caused a cultural uproar. The Tarn-et-Garonne General Council put in a purchase bid for the building, including the section housing the cloister. Happily, it was accepted. Belleperche was given essential restoration work, enough to preserve the bones of this once majestic group of buildings.

Today, as well as being a national treasure open to the public, Belleperche is home to a museum and hosts several cultural and arts festivals during the year. Today was the medieval event.

We arrived and were directed into a field. A short traipse across the grass led us to a serene, tree-lined avenue filled with the scents and sights of medieval France. There were no trappings of modern life here.

Sheltered beneath graceful boughs of mighty trees, folks were selling authentic wares. First were the makers of arms, shields and various gruesome tools of war. Did we want to buy a sword? This sparked an early interest with Jack. Grudgingly, he admitted even he couldn’t think of a use for one, although, perhaps. Possibly. We dragged him away in case he developed a sudden inspiration.

There were trinkets, charms, and handy utensils made from antlers – I quite fancied one of those butter knives. We learned from the apothecary about the natural forebears of modern medicines. Some of those herbal remedies did seem more compelling than their modern chemical equivalents.

The daily dependencies between humans and animals during the Middle Ages was focused on here. Dead or alive, animals were of crucial importance, as aptly demonstrated by another display – the tannery.

After butchering, the skinners, curriers (who dressed and coloured the hide) and specialist artisans would work to transform pelts into a multitude of different items. Learning about the age-old processes was fascinating. Clothes, harnesses, household utensils, they could all be created.

Strange smells alerted us to a new exhibit. Was it witches brew? It certainly looked like it. We peered into the Halloweeny pot, mesmerised by the bubbling matter, trying to guess what it might be. A lady, who I certainly wouldn’t mess with on a dark night, strode up and put us out of our misery.

The pot was filled with a heady infusion of mixed veg and spices. But it was not for eating. This was for dying wool. She showed us the technique involved, and several yarns, which put a whole new twist on that well-known phrase: here’s one I prepared earlier.

Onion skins created the bronzey-yellow colour, as did turmeric. Blues came from indigo and woad, and browns from walnut shells. The possibilities seemed endless. We were amazed by the ingenuity and resourcefulness of the folk from this age.

My animal-attuned ear was alerted by bleating. Close by, we found a mini-farmyard with pigs, sheep, goats, cattle and assorted fowl. These would have provided materials for clothing and food, or both.

I’ll confess to spending a while oohing at each healthy critter, watching the hairy hog tuck into an enormous breakfast and admiring the gorgeous cattle. They looked suspiciously as though they had come from the Highlands of Scotland. Perhaps they had. I was eventually dragged away to another happy surprise.

We walked through the magnificently constructed cloister, it was the one used by monks in the 12th century. We trod those very same flagstones. Just imagine! Our historical meditations were disturbed by the sound of squawks. 

Residing in the shade of a ruin, birds of prey rested regally on wood bases. Well, nearly. There were owls, hawks, falcons, buzzards and one having a bath. It was that which caught my attention. Situated at the back, the bird couldn’t care less about the admiring spectators. It splashed, flopped around and generally made a mess.

At first, it was impossible to work out the species, or the size. All I could be sure of was it was a whopper and loved water. Then it raised its head and the penny dropped. We were actually looking at a bald eagle. This species, with a wingspan of up to 2.3 metres (7.5 feet), was chosen in 1782 as the emblem of the United States of America, because of its longevity, strength and majestic looks. I decided it was a fantastic choice.

We grilled the falconer about each bird, the skills involved in caring for and hunting with these fabulous creatures. His love and respect for the birds was evident from the way he described them, and also their health. They all looked in prime condition. Sadly we would miss the planned falconry display, but it had been a huge treat to see such proud creatures close up.

Our attentions were distracted by clamouring pagan music and an extraordinary-looking jester on stilts. Wearing a catlike mask, he strutted up and down cajoling us to join the players. Unable to resist his invitation we followed, pausing only to grab a bag of sweet roasted almonds, they were seriously yummy.

A merry band of jongleurs drummed, fluted and strummed atonally. In medieval times they would have been court attendants or perhaps travellers for hire, who recited, sang or performed other acts for the audience’s entertainment. This would likely include jugglers and conjurors. This day their repertoire included a raucous announcement of the display I was desperate to see. The jousting match.

Crowds of us were ushered onto a playing field that looked incongruously like a set from a Harry Potter Quidditch tournament. Di and I, thrilled to the core, unashamedly elbowed our ways to the front leaving Jack, mystified as to why we were so interested in a bunch of grown men galloping around in circles on horses, sitting in glorious isolation on the wall behind.

The marshal of the field, whose job it was to referee such matches, grumpily called us to order. We were a medieval mob. He set the ground rules, some of which included matters of health and safety. We were soon to find out why.

Four knights rode onto the tournament field in full regalia. They were splendid. Two pairs, they would go through a series of death-defying challenges to determine the winners. We watched, gripped, as a duo approached. It seemed one knight was the baddie, the other a shining example of chivalry. Their steeds were equally different. One looked ready for a nap while the other was extremely perky. And came close, very close. We were grateful for that sturdy rail.

Tension mounted as a squire arrived to prepare his knights for their first flight of challenges. This gent neatly dispelled any erstwhile romantic thoughts I’d had about squires being young athletes, bounding around their masters energetically, bristling with lances and shields. This chap was solid. Mind you, it’s just as well because the first test definitely wasn’t for the faint-hearted.

Our sturdy squire took his place halfway down the jousting area and held up what looked to me like an unreasonably tiny shield. One after the other, each knight galloped at full tilt towards him and hurled an axe at the target. Splintered wood, embedded blades, both evidence these were authentic weapons. Their skill was incredible to see. Each knight confounded or triumphant, dashed past to line-up again. Those chargers had excellent brakes. 

Other, similarly thrilling trials were followed by arguments with the referee about points scored. Then it was time. The sharp implements of havoc were traded for blunt-ended lances. Helmets were donned, ribald jeering was dispensed with. The jousting began.

The primary aim of jousting was to replicate a clash of heavy cavalry. Each participant would ride towards his opponent at high speed and try to strike him. The objective was to break the lance on the opponent’s shield or jousting armour or unhorse him. Apparently, participants experience close to three and a quarter times their body weight in G-forces when the lances collide with their armour. Just imagine that blow!

Two knights faced one another at opposite ends of the competition field. Cries went up as the referee thrust his flag in the air. Their blood was up. The steeds, energised by the cheering throng hurled themselves, full gallop at their opponent. 

Lances aimed for the heart.

We watched, aghast as the weapons found their targets, splintering on impact. No injuries, but it was as real as could be. Places were changed, knights girding their steeds to battle. Pounding across the sandy base, kicking up dust, on they charged.

A rider was unseated. Crashing to the ground with a spectacular crunch! We watched, alarmed as his horse carried on at full pelt towards the spectators. Would it jump over them? Fingers were hastily unwrapped from rails as the charger came to a practised grinding halt. That was a relief. Those safety instructions well heeded.

Battles continued on foot. Lances traded with swords by the unseated knights. Baddie versus goodie. Our mob cheered on the black knight, he was gloriously evil. Steel clashed, sparks flew as swords scythed together. Grunting and bellowing in the searing heat, this was frighteningly effective combat. Sadly our rogue lost, but he was a dark hero in all our eyes.

The match ended, and winners were declared. The tournament arena was alive with cheering as the knights paraded one final time. Their horses, still utterly magnificent in their finery, were looking ready to do it all again. Well, aside from the nappy one. He seemed ready for a quick kip in the shade.

Our morning was up, and it was time to honour Jack’s side of the bargain. As we walked back down that graceful tree-lined avenue, Di and I chattered excitedly about the gorgeous horses and excellence of the riders. Even Jack, trying his best to be unimpressed, had a word or two to say about the robust weaponry. Yep, there had been something for everyone the day we had gone medieval at Belleperche Abbey.