A Grape Day

It was the third week in September and things were chugging along nicely as usual, that is until our peace and tranquility were rudely interrupted by the dogs. Aby and Max had presumably heard footfalls in the next village and were keen to alert us to the dangers they might present. My husband, Jack, wasn’t at all helpful in restoring peace.

“Would you shut those bloody dogs of yours up,” he howled.

Misinterpreting this as a war cry, the dogs instantly redoubled their efforts by hurling themselves at the front door.

“There’s no need to shout darling, it only encourages them.”

“Huh, and they’re supposed to be intelligent dogs. Dim as bloody ditch water if you ask me,” he grumbled above the continued din.

Now wasn’t the time to discuss which of my loved ones might be displaying signs of dimness. Instead I quietly sent the dogs outside to let off steam. As it happens that wasn’t such a good idea either. Little did we know that some friends of ours had arrived and were bravely fighting their way through the hyperactive furry bodies towards our front door.

Impromptu visits by our neighbours are quite common here. Many of the locals hate using the telephone which, in many ways, is a blessing for us. This is because a French person speaking at high speed on a scratchy telephone connection isn’t always easy to understand. Their preferred form of communication is always face-to-face and preferably over a cup of coffee. They will often drive out to us with a message, suggestion, or invitation, and never without gifts.

“Oh là là. Ils sont tres active aujourd'hui,” panted the plucky Nicole as she fought her way to the door step.  Nicole, who probably weighs-in at around 45 kilos dripping wet, is a small lady with a big personality, but does have practical difficulties with dogs like ours.

“Ah yes, so sorry about that Nicole,” I replied, peeling Max off her chest, “you know what they’re like.”

“Pas de problème, ils sont adorables,” chimed in Yves, her much larger and very jolly husband. He was gamely removing Aby, who had firmly slotted herself between his legs, and reached over to thrust a large jar of homemade foie gras paté into my hand.

“Ooh lovely thanks so much that looks delicious.”

They finally gained entry and we sat down for our ritual cup of Nespresso. Nicole explained the reason for their visit – which I will relate to you in English to spare you the agony of my appalling translation.

“We want you to come to the vendange.” This was a new word to us which sounded like ‘vandage’.

“The what?”

“The vendange.”  Jack and I looked at one another, completely nonplussed.

“Oh – er, right, lovely,” I replied, “but what’s that?”

Nicole, who speaks very rapidly, zipped through the process. By the end of it I think we both realised that it had something to do with picking grapes – others would be involved too. However much of the detail had got lost in the muddy waters of her extremely thick south-west French accent. She looked at us attentively in the way one does a small child, and sensed a hint of indecision. “Vous devez venir!” she insisted.

Ah – now this was a clear instruction. There was no doubt, we were required to go. (Our French friends are a bit like that when they think it’s something ‘les Anglais’ should experience.) Yves, who has quite the perkiest face in the world, reinforced her demand by nodding vigorously at her side. In the end, despite Jack’s sceptical expression, we agreed to join the family for this grape event the following Sunday afternoon.

Our friends only stayed for a short time. It was just long enough to issue their instruction, and enquire about the all-important estimated number of mushrooms we thought might be popping up in the forest. (Mushrooming is a passion of theirs, but that’s a story for another day.) Once that was dealt with it was time to attend to their next errand. As we waved them off Yves popped his chubby head out of the window and yelled, “N’oubliez pas d'apporter vos secateurs!” Jack, who hates anything to do with gardening, looked particularly deflated by this parting comment.

“Secateurs? I’m happy to say I don’t have any secateurs so obviously I can’t go.”

“Darling, we have several pairs of secateurs, so don’t start making excuses. Just pretend they’re pliers with sharp teeth and that you’re working on your car electrics. You have to come. It’s very thoughtful and typically neighbourly of them to have driven over here to invite us. I’m sure it’ll be great fun.”

“I’m sure it won’t. Perhaps they’re short of labour and need an extra pair of snippers.”

With that he stalked off to play with one of his chainsaws.

I was still intrigued by the strict definition of this word ‘vandage’, but my normally trusty Harrap’s French-English Dictionary had nothing to offer. After attempting several permutations of the word I gave up and resorted to Google, which instantly put me right. The search box politely suggested that I should be spelling the word vendange, and once I’d arrived at the correct source it offered some useful advice.

As we'd assumed, the vendange is indeed the grape harvest. It normally takes place between September and October depending on the variety of grape and when it ripens. The time of day for harvesting is important too. In some warmer regions such as Provence the grapes are often picked either early, or late in the day. This is because average autumn temperatures of 30º-32º C (86º-89º F) are common, and if picked during the heat of the day, the crushed fruit reacts badly when it is stored in cellars stabilised at the much lower temperatures around 14º C (57ºF).

The vendange is a period of intense activity that attracts international interest. Some vineyards employ pickers on temporary contracts, others market the period as a working holiday. There are those who invite all-comers to participate. The key criteria here are that the participants should be fit and healthy, and dead keen to experience this revered event. Then there is the strictly family and close friends affair – that’s the category we fell into.  

This all sounded very exciting to me, but suspecting that Jack might not share my natural enthusiasm, I chose not to bother him with my new-found knowledge about French country customs.

Sunday afternoon came, but there was to be no lounging around. We armed ourselves with secateurs and drove to our friend’s farmhouse on the outskirts of a beautiful village. Their home has been part of the family for several generations, and is quite wonderful. Tumbledown and covered in rambling plants of various varieties, it oozes character – as does the strangely shaped rose bed outside the front door. Apparently Yves has a deep love for the plants and decided to embark on a spot of landscape gardening. The border might have left something to be desired, but he certainly has green fingers. The air was heavy with fragrances from the enormous blooms that were wilting gracefully in the late afternoon heat.

The family homestead also includes an ancient séchoir barn which has big wooden shutters. These would have been opened up and used for air-drying tobacco plants. It's a fascinating building which now houses Yves’ little grey tractor which is probably older than any of us. Then there are houses either side owned by each of their two sons. Views to the rear are over Yves’ potager and endless fields of maize and crops beyond. It’s an idyllic setting for them, and perfect for their ever-increasing brood of grandchildren to grow up in.

As we drove in I felt a touch of anxiety about the process. Were there any special skills involved? Did I need guidance on what to harvest and where to snip? We knew their property fairly well, but the other worry was that I couldn’t ever recall seeing a grapevine. And, to make matters even more bothersome, there didn’t seem to be a soul about. Had something got lost in translation? It wouldn’t be the first time that had happened. However, Nicole then appeared. Bright and sunny-faced as usual, she teetered on the edge of the rose bed looking extremely eager.

“Venez vite qu'elle a déjà commence!” she said trotting towards the rear of the house. Happily it sounded as though we did have the right day, but it was now 5.45pm and apparently we were a little bit late. Still slightly mystified as to what we might find, we followed her across the road and along a short track and there it was – a small vineyard tucked neatly behind a long hedge. No wonder we hadn’t seen it, and it was a hive of activity too.

There were small children, adults, and elderly people of all shapes and sizes busy harvesting the healthiest bunches of red grapes I have ever seen. The children were all wearing shorts and tee-shirts, the ladies in dresses or skirts, and the men mostly in their hunting kit.

A tractor was being driven slowly between rows of vines by a terribly old gentleman who looked far too frail to walk, so perhaps driver-duty was a safer option. The machine was towing a long flatbed trailer upon which sat a rickety machine. It had a big wheel and handle and looked just like an old-fashioned clothes wringer. Bucket-loads of grapes and stalks were being poured into this machine and then shredded through its inner workings to be collected in plastic dustbins below. The kids were clambering on and off the trailer with the buckets full of grapes and passing them to the machine operator. This was an intriguing set up.

We exchanged embraces and kisses with those that we knew, and shook hands with those we didn’t. Nicole then led us to the trailer where David, one of her sons, handed us an empty bucket each and pointed to a line of vines. “Allez!” he shouted above the din of the tractor before returning to his job as grape mangler.  

Poor Jack looked horrified. It was one of those extremely rare moments when he looks completely out of his depth. He stared at the bucket and secateurs in his hand, and then the plants – helpless. The cherub-faced Yves spotted this and chuckled indulgently at my petrol-head husband. He grabbed his arm and gave him a swift demonstration, lopping about 15 huge bunches of grapes and plunging them in the bucket in double-quick time. That was all the instruction Jack needed. He was off. Slightly slower than everyone else because, being a perfectionist, he wanted to snip each bunch at precisely the right point and in the correct manner to avoid wastage.

The next two hours passed in a flash. The air was heavy with warmth and filled with the sounds of the old tractor engine and raucous noise from us. Regardless of age, the chat was animated and gossip rife about most things including the latest village goings-on. Who was seen doing what and when, and more to the point, why? Several of the older ladies then started trying to teach us a wine-harvesting song but this ended up in gales of laughter as they gave us up as a bad job, so we sang La Marseillaise instead.

All of the children were learning English at school, but I had the distinct impression that their interest level was pretty half-hearted to say the least. That is except for ten-year-old Dominic. He knew just one word and was determined to use it at every available opportunity. His special word was 'YES!' Conversation became slightly tricky with him because one had to arrive at an appropriate final point which required a 'Yes!' but we battled on regardless.

Every now and again a lady would appear with a new variety of green grapes. Small bunches were thrust into our hands. “Goûtez, goûtez!” Taste, taste! she would demand. Each flavour was slightly different, and absolutely delicious. I have no idea where they had been picked from – we seemed to be surrounded by a meadow of burgundy-red beauties. But we all munched away ravenously, and listened to her stories of their origin and uses.

Suddenly Jack stopped his detailed snippings. He’d noticed some green grapes being hurled into the shredding machine. This appeared to be a matter of real concern for him. He then began an animated conversation with David, following which he started trudging back down his side of the vines. I asked him what was going on.

“Well, I’ve been setting aside the few green ones so that the final wine mixture isn’t a mish-mash of different varieties. I’m no wine-making expert but this all seems to me to be most irregular.”

“Darling,” I said, “I don’t think Yves is shooting for an appellation d’origine contrôlée, just pick the grapes and get them into the wringer please.”

At which point the little monosyllabic Dominic, who had been standing by my side, cried , “Yes!”

The hot afternoon temperatures had not abated, but we were still going strong when suddenly there was a shout of “Merde!” from ancient-of-days on the tractor. The engine started spluttering and coughing and then petered out with a sonorous backfire – the tractor had died. This was terrible! We had to get the harvest in before nightfall and there was still at least one more line of vines to go. The assembled company were appalled – that is aside from one person, and he was grinning from ear to ear.

“Don’t worry,” exclaimed Jack, completely forgetting that there were only 2.01 of us who understood English, “I’ll get it fixed for you. Stand aside please.”

Jack triumphantly handed me his bucket and secateurs and strode, with some drama, up to the tractor. Now, happily equipped by Yves with the sort of tools that Jack considered as friends, he set to work on the engine. The team looked on apprehensively. Buckets were bursting at the seams with grapes and would have to be hauled an awfully long way if the engine problem was terminal. Then there were the dustbins on the trailer. They were full to the brim with grape crushings, and no one could possibly carry that precious cargo. A groundswell of anxious murmurings began – this could be a catastrophe in the making.

After about fifteen minutes of tinkering, Jack shouted instructions to our aged driver. He pulled a couple of levers, pumped the clutch, and the tractor rattled back into life. The team hollered their delight at the ‘mécanicien Anglais’, who was now covered in his beloved engine oil. Jack was a hero, and doubly happy because his newly-soiled hands meant he could excuse himself from touching any more grapes.

The harvest continued uninterrupted by any further crises, and when the final bucket was slung into the grape mangle we were all infused with a party spirit. Everyone was extremely sticky and most covered in purple grape stains, the exception being Jack who was just oily. But nobody cared, we’d done it. We had completed the vendange!

The tractor towed our prized cargo plus kid-pickers back to the house, where David showed me the vats they would use to make their own wine. They had been snuck at the back of the séchoir in a pleasantly cool spot. Perfect! He explained the fermenting, straining and bottling process and the time period up to the moment when the liquid fruits of the harvest would be ready for tasting. This was an important event and one which he then asked if we might like to attend. Could these people get any kinder? I asked myself.

Meanwhile the diminutive Nicole was back in charge and called the team to her massively long garden bench. This was now heavy with drinks of all varieties, and by the looks of things, the fruits of her labours in the kitchen that afternoon. She had produced multiple platefuls of differently shaped and sized canapés. They tasted exquisite and melted in the mouth, just large enough to tease the stomach, and blended perfectly with Yves’ wines.

As our evening wore on the kids played in the garden. Knowing of my love for animals, every now and again one of them would appear with a family pet. Each long-suffering animal would be presented with bash formality by the child in question who wore a hopeful expression. Of course I was delighted to respond and duly stroked or cuddled the furry treasure until it was removed and replaced by another. This enchanting process went on for some time until one of the children discovered a set of metal balls used for pétanque. Animal petting was summarily abandoned and replaced by a fiendish game of this form of bowls, which is played on rough ground. Watching the teams prepare themselves for battle, the company of family pets sensed potential danger and promptly scarpered to distant parts of the garden.

Meanwhile the adults were becoming merrier by the moment, increasingly affected by the generous helpings of Yves' superb wines. We exchanged more tales and discussed our afternoon’s work, which unfortunately inspired Jack to begin telling his dreadful jokes. It mattered not that few of the assembled company had the first clue about what he was saying, they all guffawed at the right places, and encouraged him to tell more. But finally it was dark and we really had to go. With our grape harvest safely tucked-up in bed, we said our goodbyes and kissed everyone, including those pets that had been plucky enough to reappear. We drove away to sounds of “À bientôt” and clunk of the metal balls used for pétanque – yes, we would see them soon.

We had definitely done the right thing when we decided to live in our little corner of France.

Guest Blog by Elizabeth Mppre - Lucy

This is the beautifully written account of Lucy, a young feral cat, who came to share Elizabeth Mppre's life. I hope you'll enjoy reading this extraordinary story as much as I did.

I was aware of Lucy before we actually met. Our vet had rescued two litters of kittens and they were all playing in a large enclosure when I went to collect food for Toby – our tuxedo cat. 

There was a beautiful champagne tabby cavorting with her siblings. When I returned in two weeks she and several other kittens had been claimed. The remaining fur balls rolled, played and stalked on.

It was several weeks before I returned. There had been a juvenile whale found in a waterway in Sydney’s north and it was not expected to survive. As I parked the car the newscaster revealed that the decision had been made to euthanase Colin the whale.

I pushed the surgery door open feeling sad and even a little teary. Without even thinking I checked the enclosure and made eye contact with the last kitten. A loud trill came from this tiny, tortie creature. I was being summoned.

The vet was managing the front desk as it was quite early. I looked at him and made some comment about the poor whale and he nodded. The decision by the marine vets was for the best.

I sighed and looked back at the little lady who was demanding my attention - talking and trilling. We had quite a conversation and I felt wretched that she was the last of the two litters. “That’s Lucy.” I was informed. “Staff members always name the kittens when they are caring for them.”

I was late for work but the germ of an idea was hovering. I mentioned Lucy to my husband and for once he said “Let’s talk about it when we get home.” He always countered any kitten request from me in a kind but firm negative. Not this time.

As soon as I finished work I drove straight back to the vets. Lucy was not in the enclosure. Relief – she was behind the scenes with one of the nurses. I asked if I could meet her as I was interested in adoption.

I was ushered into one of the examination rooms and the nurse arrived with Miss Lucy. Lucy made all the right moves for an adoption interview. She snuggled and purred and rubbed her head on my wrist.

To the practice’s credit, the nurse was conducting a covert interview. She pointed out that Lucy was not really a tiny kitten anymore – she was a lanky 5 month old and growing fast. I told the nurse I didn’t really want a kitten – I wanted a cat. Right answer apparently.

“Besides” I added remembering our exchange earlier in the day, “She is an amazing talker.” The nurse looked askance at me. “Lucy never talks.” Now that really was incredible. I quickly asked about all the necessary adoption details and hurried home to convince my husband.

He was curiously amenable and so next day Lucy and I became an official item. She had spent all her time in a vet’s enclosure so I decided to start her off gently and gave her own little room with all the basics – a bed, food, litter, water and toys. I would head in every half hour or so and sit on the floor with her while she sniffed, played and explored.

That night my husband and I could hear what can only be described as cat Olympics as she bounced and jumped and skittered in her new, very own space.

Our next task was to introduce her to Toby. He was interested but she put on her best firebrand impression and made much noise. Within minutes they were firm friends and remain inseparable.

I had been warned when I collected Lucy that she was possible very close to her first oestrus. Her sister Annabelle had been de-sexed the week I met Lucy and staff described the signs I needed to watch for.

Naturally she began calling, trilling and shimmying on our first weekend together. All night and constantly. I called the surgery and she was booked in for the following Tuesday.

I took her in for her surgery and felt dreadful. This dear little girl had spent  three full days with us and I was carting her through the door and back to all the familiar sights smells and voices she knew so well.

I fretted. Would she think she was being abandoned? Did she imagine she had not been the best cat she could have been and we had decided we didn’t want her anymore? It was awful standing in the waiting room with all these thoughts chasing around in my head.

Thankfully she was soon home with a shaved tummy, stitches and instructions about keeping her quiet and rested while she recuperated. The nightly Olympics resumed immediately. She did not miss a beat.

Lucy slipped seamlessly into our lives. She adored Toby, loved my husband but was obviously my kitten. Each morning she would jump onto the bed accompanied by her lovely trilling calls. We would snuggle and then I was gently encouraged to start her day with food and litter duties.

One morning, her snuggles varied a little. She leaned across me and pushed my left breast with her head. I moved her away as I was about to get up and attend to her breakfast.

She repeated the behaviour the next morning but this time she was much more insistent – annoying even. I reached across to stop her and as I moved her head I felt a lump. A lump that was not going away. A lump I should have found myself had I not been so haphazard in my own self breast examinations.

Everything changed in seconds. My doctor saw me without an appointment, I spent a day at the Sydney Breast Clinic confirming my fears and by the end of the week I was in surgery.

There are numberless accounts of surgeries, chemo and radiotherapie. I won’t go into detail. I spent months dutifully following every instruction I received, attending every appointment and downing every medication. Eight months later I was pronounced fit for work. Five years later the powers that be were tentatively pleased with my progress.

So – was it sheer happenstance? Dogs sniff cancer – but cats? I honestly don’t know but Lucy found my cancer. I really don’t care how she did it – she essentially saved my life – at the very least she hastened my diagnosis and treatment.

She has tortitude by the bucket load. She loves my husband and me unconditionally and occasionally my daughter. I have friends who do not believe Lucy lives in my house.  All strangers are to be hidden from, but supervision of the tradesman working on our renovations is deemed necessary, albeit from a safe distance.

I knew very little about torties before I met Lucy. I know a lot more now and have become one of an elite group, enchanted tortie lovers. It’s an exclusive club – by invitation only and I and so glad I was asked to join.

Brutus - Our Feral Cat

It seems like a lifetime ago, but actually it wasn’t. This blog tells the tale of how Jack, my husband, and I came to share our lives with a feral cat.

One evening during the renovation process of our tumbledown hunting estate in France, we were sitting outside on an old section of broken-down wall. Chatting away exhaustedly about the latest disasters that had befallen us that day, we were interrupted by a strange sound coming from the bushes. We both stared at the leaves, but couldn’t see a thing. Then suddenly we heard what we thought was a meow. We peered again, but nothing. Although it had definitely sounded like a cat, with no neighbours for miles around, we just assumed we were imagining things. But we couldn’t be sure.

As a precaution, and much to our dogs’ disgust, we left some of their food out in a dish in case our hunch was correct. I rushed out the next day and was excited to find that there wasn’t a scrap left. Jack quite sensibly told me it had very likely been eaten by a fox, or other wild animal, and not to fuss. He was probably right, but I still had a hunch that we had a cat somewhere. Each evening we banished the dogs to a safe distance and began a very pleasant nightly beer-drinking-on-a-boulder vigil. Our patience eventually paid off.

About a week had passed before we spotted her, a small face peeking timidly through the undergrowth. No wonder we hadn’t seen her before, her tortoiseshell markings blended perfectly with the foliage. Sitting absolutely still, we watched and talked to her, hoping that she’d have the confidence to venture out. This took a while, but when she finally emerged we were treated to the sight of a lovely, petite cat who was obviously stuffed full of kittens.

Over the following days her confidence grew and we were eventually allowed to stroke her whiskers and the sides of her face and body, but never her ears – these were her radars, always pricked and alert for the sounds of danger. Amazingly though, she was incredibly mild-mannered and trusting, and even let me brush her. This was evidently a blissful new experience which caused her to purr like an outboard motor. With no collar, or other explanation for her appearance, we concluded that she must be a feral cat who lived in our woods. If she was going to stay around I decided that she needed a name. So, severely lacking in inspiration, we ended up calling the poor animal Pusskins.

A couple of weeks later her evening routine changed and she became even more furtive than usual. Showing a massively distended belly, she began roaming restlessly around the barns, mewing gently. We assumed that she was ready to give birth and needed somewhere safe and dry to have her kittens. Then quite suddenly she disappeared completely. I was distraught and hunted high and low, fearful that she might be in distress, but there was no sign of her anywhere.

At this stage I had all but given up hope but as I passed the tractor shed one day I was distracted by a scuffling sound coming from behind one of the old crates. I stared into the gloom and gazing dreamily back at me was our little feral cat surrounded by several balls of fur. Pusskins had given birth! At that stage I had no idea how many there were, but I could certainly see tabbies, a ginger, and a cream coloured kitten. I couldn’t believe my eyes, they were absolutely gorgeous. I rushed excitedly back to the house to break the news to Jack, who hunted around and confirmed that we had six new arrivals to our home.

Now we had a difficult decision to make. One of the projects we started was to raise pheasants and partridges to repopulate our woods. At the time we had around 300 chicks in brooder sheds next door. Our worry was that with many hungry mouths to feed, our new mum would be very likely to use these fledglings to teach her youngsters some early hunting skills. This would be perfectly natural behaviour, an easy meal, but definitely unwelcome. Unsure of what we should do we asked our vet for advice. He explained that there was a serious feral cat problem in the area. Interbreeding and disease were rife amongst the feline colonies, and we should do everything we could to prevent them contributing to the already burgeoning population. The writing was on the wall – have the litter put down, or take them in. Our conclusion was an easy one; we took mum and her kittens in.

It was a great idea in theory but not so simple in practice. First things first we had to catch the kittens. This was very tricky because they were extremely adept at skittering around and under machinery and squishing themselves into the tiniest spaces imaginable. After much clambering and falling over boxes and oily bits of machine, and much cussing from Jack, we finally we managed it. We took them to the house and made a new nest out of an old puppy bed in a dog cage. 

Our next worry was how we would feed them. Luckily this was where Pusskins came into her own. Her terror of entering a human building was overcome by the instinctive need to feed her young, so mealtimes quickly became a team activity. Much to the disgust of our dogs once again, she would pluck up courage, creep stealthily into the house, and pop into the cage to nurse her hungry mob. We’d close the cage door to give her complete privacy, and she’d lie there until the job was done. She would then become restive until we re-opened the door which allowed her to speed back to the freedom of her outdoor domain. She repeated this twice a day, but it wasn’t enough.

As we all know kittens need several feeds a day so, under instruction from our vet, we supplemented her efforts by bottle feeding. This, by the way, is not an easy task because kittens are very wriggly little suckers!

Four weeks later we trapped our little Pusskins after a feeding session, and took her to the vet to be sterilised. Knowing that she would be ready to mate again it was the least we could do to help maintain her health. It must have been a terrifying ordeal for her, but she coped fantastically well and never growled or fought once. Meanwhile we continued to bottle feed the kittens and gradually introduced them to solid food.

Pusskins made a perfect recovery from her surgery and, once again, instinctively seemed to know that her job was done. She took very little interest in her kittens after six weeks and only rarely came into the house again. So there we were – six fluffy beauties who ate, played and generally caused havoc. Well nearly. There was one which was different from the others. Although it was very big, it was always much more reserved and very nervous of us humans. I was instantly drawn to this fragile creature.

Much as I would have loved to, there was no doubt about it, we couldn’t keep all the kittens. But having been brought up with lots of cats I was desperate to keep at least one. Jack had become unusually besotted by them and agreed, so we decided to invite animal-loving friends of ours to come round to give homes to the others. This was a great arrangement, although I would later realise how hard it was to see our kits being examined by prospective new families. I was under strict instructions to let them choose whichever kitten they wanted, which was agony because I always knew which one I wanted to keep.

Prior to the first visit the main challenge we had was to establish what sex they were. Most of our friends had said that they wanted to have females, so we unceremoniously turned each kitten bottom-up to try and work out their gender. Fairly sure of our findings, we then named them because it was easier for identification purposes when we were picking each out for feeding sessions. Unfortunately for the little critters, I’d been reading a Roman history thriller at the time so they mostly got saddled with names as awful as Pusskins.

We wanted to do everything properly for the kittens, so arranged for them to be picked up by their new families after their first vaccination. Our trip to the vet to have this done also involved a confirmation of each animal’s gender. As it turned out we weren’t world-class experts in the cat-sexing department, so some rapid re-naming had to be done. Caesar became Cleo, Maximus became Maxine, but Ginger remained Ginger in spite of the fact that she was a girl. Then there were three boys. Hercule, so named because he was incredibly nosy, Tigger who was on springs and completely hyperactive, and finally the huge, but terribly timid, Brutus.

Our first groups of friends came to examine and coo at the kittens. After much playing and cuddling the girls were selected, but the boys were left. I was terrified that Brutus would be next, but I needn’t have worried. Hercule was big and bold and Tigger was the litter comic so whilst they stole the show, Brutus hung back, resisting all attempts at being handled. Everyone decided that he was the true feral, and would never make a house pet so left him to hide in a corner. How wrong they were.

By the time they were 10 weeks old all the kittens had gone apart from Brutus. Pusskins had reverted to her ghost-like appearances and now refused to eat our continued offerings. But I was happy because we still had Brutus.

A richly-coloured tabby, to my eyes he was an extraordinarily beautiful boy, filled with feline grace and poise. As the months passed he gained more confidence in himself and us and purred like mad when stroked and cuddled.

However, whilst he was loving and tactile with my husband and I, his expression would turn to one of pure terror if someone else came into the house. He was the same with machines, the very sound of which would cause him to run for cover underneath our bed.

Today, five years later, Brutus is exactly the same. He has grown into a fine, big cat who is the most gentle animal we have ever had the privilege to share our lives with. His exquisite face and gentle, sensitive, temperament closely resemble that of his mum, as does his natural nervousness. But with us he plays and wrestles and snuggles, and does all those things his siblings did – but only with us.

We absolutely adore our big wild cat. He works with me at my computer, watches me while I cook and stalks leaves in the garden pretending that he’s a big brave boy. He’s the boss of our dogs, our home and he has my heart. We’ll always be thankful for the day that his mum came into our lives and allowed us to take care of her family.

My Day at the Doctor's

I’ve been having some problems with an old injury that was stirred up by a recent fall. This meant that I was going to have to see our doctor, a thought that filled me with dread. This is not because Dr. Sattern isn’t a nice chap. On the contrary, he is very pleasant. The difficulties lie elsewhere.

We live in a rural part of France and either our doctor is very popular, or there aren’t very many of them about. I’m not sure which is correct, but it takes an awfully long time to get to see him. The appointment process itself is extremely quick and, if necessary, almost immediate, but the subsequent time spent in the surgery waiting room can often cause one to lose the will to live. An emotion that is quite ironic in the circumstances.

For some unknown reason it’s not uncommon to hang around for two hours or more after the original appointment time. This has, on more than one occasion, caused my husband Jack to comment that there’s really no point in having a schedule at all. He may be quite right there.

Jack has a characteristic aversion to doctors. I remember the time when we were living in Britain and our surgery closed down. We had to transfer to a new doctor and, in order to register, every patient was required to go in for a quick medical check. The paperwork could then be completed. For Jack this was anathema. His time was at a premium anyway, but that wasn’t all. As a healthy person he couldn’t see the point of sitting in a roomful of people, many of whom were likely to be carriers of various diseases. He’s never particularly enjoyed human company anyway, and this presented a perfect logic to absent himself from a procedure that he considered to be flawed.  

After many letters and phone calls from the surgery Jack eventually spoke with our new doctor. To his credit he agreed with everything Jack said, and arranged to see him out of hours. Jack duly went along at 8pm one evening when the surgery was empty. Apparently he had a thoroughly pleasant chat with the doctor about golf, and the trials of having to team up with one’s wife. He may even have had his pulse taken – that I couldn’t be sure about, but at least he was now registered.

Therefore, as far as my husband is concerned, he has to be half-dead before he’s prepared to contemplate a move in our French doctor’s direction. I, on the other hand, needed to go. I made the call to his receptionist and asked for an appointment. My natural optimism fleetingly got the better of me when I foolishly asked for a period which was the calmest. “Hah!” came the harsh cry from the fatigued assistant. She told me that there were never any calm periods, but I could take my pick from a number of slots that had not been taken. Unfortunately I couldn’t make any of these, so asked what his diary was like for the next morning. “But madame there are no scheduled appointments tomorrow morning. The surgery opens at 8.30am and you must arrive and wait your turn.”

“Parfait,” I replied. This was the obvious way to deal with the problems of hanging around for hours. I would simply arrive very early and get to see him first. Perhaps I should have taken more notice of her “bon chance” after I shared my strategy with the lady but, in my enthusiasm, I failed to register its subtle significance.

The next morning I got up bright and early and began my journey to our surgery. And it’s just as well I did because I very quickly caught up with a farmer driving his car between 25 and 30kph (yes, that’s kilometres). Sadly, this is not unusual. We haven’t quite worked out why some of them drive so slowly. It could be because their battered old cars are past the sell-by date and simply have a top speed of around 30kph. It may be because they’re conserving fuel. Then there are those who indulge in the peculiarly European tradition of driving a ‘Voiture sans Permis’.

Literally translated as ‘Car without Licence’ these vehicles are legally defined as a four-wheel vehicle with an unladen weight not exceeding 350kg, a maximum speed not more than 45kph, and maximum power less than or equal to 4kW (5.6hp ). They are treated as mopeds and can be driven with or without a licence. Even if exercised to the full, their theoretical top speed is exactly half the normal single carriageway speed limit. But driving at full speed seems to be a rare event.

I couldn’t be sure why we were travelling so slowly but, in the absence of a passing lane, there was no possibility of overtaking the sedate old gentleman in front of me. This turned my 15 minute drive into 30, but it shouldn’t have mattered. Fortunately time was on my side and I was still very early.

It was market day in the town and quite busy already, it was also very hot. I squashed my car into one of the few remaining spaces, breezed confidently into the surgery, and stopped in my tracks. The place was already seething with people and it wasn’t even 8.15am – I couldn’t believe it. What a dirty trick! It must have been the cleaner who’d let them all in. I looked at the assembled company and said my obligatory “bonjour messieurs dames” which was greeted by a series of croaks and one extremely loud sneeze. I then looked towards the receptionist’s desk and saw the pile of health-service cards which were already stacked high. These would determine the order of play. I had half a mind to slot mine gently in the lower part of the tower, but one look from the rheumy-eyed patient on card-duty put me off straight away. Instead I dutifully popped it on top and sat down on the remaining horizontal surface, the children’s toy box. Incidentally this is another of Jack’s pet hates. He views the lids of these boxes with great suspicion, convinced that they are dangerously contagious objects having been fiddled with by small ill children.

8.30am came and went and every time the door opened, as a group, we all looked up expectantly, hoping that it would be our doctor. Sadly not. I remonstrated with myself for my naivety at forgetting that he is never on time, ever. Dr. Sattern is something of a local celebrity around our parts owing to his willingness to volunteer for just about everything. Fire brigade, neighbourhood police, relief hospital medic, you name it, he’s stuck his hand up. I think his public-spirited behaviour is quite laudable, but Jack thinks he’s just a public-spirited egomaniac. Whatever the truth, his numerous extra-mural activities often cause him to be very late.

Happily Madame Colcutt, the receptionist did arrive on time, barked a “bonjour” at us all and glowered at the mass of cards. She then reconnected the phone from night answer machine mode which caused the receiver to explode with noise, and become alive with flashing lights. This lasted most of the morning for the over-worked lady.

Finally at 9.34am Dr. Sattern strolled in looking perfectly relaxed and not at all as though he had just left the emergency helicopter outside. Those of us who had watches stared at them, others glanced at the wall clock, which was clearly missing a battery. A groundswell of grumpy mutters was followed by a few hacking coughs. There was a moment of innate solidarity – none of us was happy that he was so late, but relieved that the proceedings could at last begin. A further period of tension ensued while we waited for our doctor to strap on his stethoscope and call the first patient. Furtive glances flickered around the room, each of us trying to guess who would be the first to go in.

“Madame Sarget,” boomed Dr. Sattern, his stethoscope swinging dangerously from side to side, threatening to whack an old chap on the beret. We all stared fixedly at this lady, willing her to get a move on, but this was unlikely to happen. Poor old Madame Sarget was desperately elderly and, by the look of things, on her last legs. In retrospect, it was probably just as well that she did go first. Anyway, we were up and running and the strain in the room visibly eased. People began to chat among themselves, read waiting room magazines which, as Jack would point out, had all previously been soiled by other patients, or play with their mobile phones. However, after about half an hour our collective spirits were dampening. Madame Sarget was still in there, and there were still over 20 of us left in the waiting room. It didn’t take a mathematician to work out that if we all took that long it would be tomorrow before the end of the list was reached. Things were not going at all well.

Finally, after about 35 minutes, she hobbled out. Well, at least she was still alive. The next three or four patients only took around 15 minutes each so it was safe to believe that we might now be on a roll. We relaxed and later on looked with a mixture of pity and smugness at a new group who arrived and had to line up against the wall (standing room only now). Dr. Sattern duly reappeared having dispensed with another ‘done’ patient, but to our utter dismay, called three of the newcomers in. This caused collective outrage. Two of the patients immediately strode up to the receptionist to complain. In part this was an unwise move because it enabled one of the standers to slide into a now-vacant seat.

The initial thrust of the complaints committee was somewhat thwarted because their attentions were waved aside by Madame Colcutt, who’s phone was still welded to her ear and threatening to catch fire with overuse. She finally barked a “ne quittez pas s'il vous plait” (hold please) at the receiver, stabbed a button and stared defiantly at the angry mob. I couldn’t hear what was said, but it seemed that our deputation wasn’t entirely successful. There was much head wagging, pointing of fingers and a slam of the desk diary by madame. Our contingent returned to wedge themselves onto the now full couch, and explained the situation. It seems that these people (who didn’t seem to speak French), had arrived very early, started off the card pile, and then gone off to have a relaxed mooch around the market. Genius! Their return timing was nothing short of impeccable. They were, in fact, blameless.

Time wore on and I was beginning to wish that I had brought a cushion. As each new patient was called in we started to eye one another with suspicion. Was there any possibility of queue-fixing? It was difficult to say. The other problem was the heat. The air conditioning unit was in a similar state to the wall clock. It didn’t work. With temperatures rising steadily it would have been around 32 degrees centigrade outside by now, and not much less inside. I’m afraid this took its toll on the assembled company, some of whom began to perspire and smell rather ripe. Those with coughs and colds became noisier. I was certain that the air was thick with a colourful mix of infections, which were now being wafted around by several ladies using rank looking dog-eared magazines for fans. Blood pressures were collectively rising. This was a thoroughly bad combination, but at least we were in the right place in the event of an impromptu health disaster. Then, as if matters could get any worse, in came a screaming child with its mother.

It wasn’t immediately clear which of the two was the patient. The mother looked absolutely exhausted and the child yelled in a most energetic fashion. Sadly they made a bee-line for me, but it wasn’t my company they sought, the child wanted to get at the toys. I got up stiffly and waited my turn for the musical chairs moment when one might become vacant. I must say that, at times like these when there’s the possibility of a seat to be won, it’s amazing how agile the otherwise infirm can be. Unfortunately it was breathing room only, so I stood next to the mother and the child, who was now busy shredding toys.

This part of my morning was probably the lowest. The unfortunate little boy, who was around four years old, had a streaming cold but hadn’t yet acquired the skills needed to manage the stuff that was running out of his various orifices. His mother avoided any attempt to help him with his general hygiene, and completely ignored the bawling snivels and rivulets of liquid running down his face into his mouth. Instead, she busied herself by sending text messages. I watched, grotesquely fascinated, as he carefully excavated each nostril and smeared the contents of his gunky nasal passages onto his shorts and the toy box lid. Evidently of the opinion that something was not quite right, he then took out a bag of tiny sweets and proceeded to stuff one or two up the empty passages. Oddly enough these got stuck and caused immediate irritation. He then let out a gusty sneeze, causing all sorts of unsavoury fluids to fly across the room, and one of the sweets to fire out of his nostril like a pellet. This sent it skimming across the floor. Where would it end up? I was gripped. It eventually skipped over a small clod of mud and came to rest on an old lady’s stocking. Luckily, and despite it being bright orange, she didn’t notice.

I was so transfixed, wondering what was going to happen next, that I didn’t notice the activity going on around me. Dr. Sattern, stethoscope swinging pendulously, had reappeared and was calling my name! Faces stared accusingly as I wasted precious time by scrambling about trying to re-pack the contents of my bag, which I’d managed to drop on the floor in all the excitement. I gathered them up as quickly as possible, minced around the knobbly knees, the walking sticks and the suspicious splats on the floor, and I was in.

At this stage all I wanted to do was get my minor problem sorted and out of the way, but it’s never really that easy with Dr. Sattern. Aside from the fact that he is quite a chatter, he also loves to test out his linguistic skills. He was still extremely relaxed, apparently oblivious to the worsening health conditions he was causing his patients in the next room. He spoke in pidgin English and started regaling me with amusing anecdotes which had occurred during an over-the-garden-fence conversation he’d with his English neighbour. During this I made the fatal mistake of correcting one of his mis-used words.

Me: “I think you mean duG, rather than duGGED Dr. Sattern.”

Dr. S: “As yes, it is the dug, I see thank you.”

Me: “That’s a pleasure, your English is excellent.”

Dr. S: “Ah you flattering me too much.”

Me: “Certainly not, it’s the truth. And that’s a very good word to use.”

Dr. S: “Yes, an old French word.”

Me: “Ah, I think you’ll find that it is an English word.”

Mistake! Dr. Sattern sprang into action. He swept aside heaps of patient records and medical tomes and started ferreting around with the mountain of books on the floor. No luck there. He then went to his computer, pressed the delete button and hit Google.fr. After a moment or two of frantic keying he clicked on a website and let out a whoop of triumph.

Dr. S: “Here it is – the definition. It is for sure the word very French.”

With that he swung the screen towards me with such ferocity that it knocked the plastic spine and rib cage clean off the shelf, sending them clattering across the floor. There were vertebrae everywhere.

Me: “Ah yes, I do apologise, it’s seems that I might be wrong.”

Dr. S: “You are! All the best words, they are the ones French.”

Now that he’d sorted out yet another linguistic challenge to his personal satisfaction he abandoned the rest of his story, his bones, and stared fixedly at me.

Dr. S: “So, what is wrong?”

By this stage it was nearly 1pm and quite honestly I could barely remember why I’d gone in the first place. I blundered through an explanation of my minor medical problem which, to his credit, he took very seriously. After a thorough examination and prescription to sort it out, we said our goodbyes and he steered me back to the lions’ den.

I knew I had been in there for almost half an hour, but there hadn’t been much I could do about it. However, no excuse would have been acceptable to the remaining occupants of the waiting room who stared belligerently and sniffed intermittently as I scurried by. As I made for the door I passed the receptionist’s desk. She had escaped to lunch leaving her phone flashing like a manic 1970’s disco ball. Who could blame her?

My journey back was very short, leaving me just enough time to fret about my appointment and those poor patients still waiting to be seen. Today had been a new record, one that had beaten the socks of our usual two hours. I had started off at 8am and didn’t reach home until 1.30pm.

As I walked into the house my ever-loving Jack greeted me with, “Poor darling! You must be fed up.” I reached forward to give him a kiss, but he raised his hand in warning. “BUT,” he continued, “please don’t touch me or give us any food until you’ve washed your hands. You’ve been in that virus incubation chamber for a complete morning. In fact, better still, you go shower and I’ll make lunch. Safer all round really.”

So, there we have it – a morning that was nothing short of ridiculous. But, here in our little corner of France, where life often moves very slowly, it’s something that is generally accepted. In my case, not always with good grace, in Jack’s case – never. But the truth is I’d never want to trade it, any of it.

And at least I got out of the cooking!