The Green Brigade

There was a knock on the door last week,it was the Green Brigade; four blokes in a lorry, with assorted mowers,brush cutters and chain saws in the back. They used to be called the Parks Department but we're very environmentally concious round here these days
It transpires that the Tour de France is coming through here next month on their way into (and up) the Pyrennees and what they want to do is to cut back all the trees that overhang the road. "For health and safety reasons " I enquire, non, not at all, it's all to do with the over-riding power of television; their helecopter must have an unimpeeded view of the race.
OK by me, a lot of the 2 and a bit hectares (5 acres) here is woodland along the road and there's at least 2 large overhanging oaktrees which could be dangerous. The Green Brigade also volunteer to take the wood away even though it's not really part of their job; but, on the other hand, it does fetch 55 Euros a stere (thats a cubic metre with air gaps in it ).
This week there has been quite a bit of excitement generated (as excitement goes in the backwoods!), because at the same time as the the trees are being tidied the grass verges are being levelled and the ditches cleared alongside the road leading up to the villagefrom the town. This 3 kilometre climb has reduced my grandsons, on their bikes to tears, but doesn't even feature as a category 4 climb on the tour.
Oh yes ! The excitment? Well as they cleared the ditches they also cut out the bridges that gave access to the fields. Like all french work, it starts, most of the work is finished but then the workforce disappears before final completion. In this case they have left the concrete pipes in the fields ready to remake the bridges but that means there is no access for the farmers.They are desperate to get to the hay crop,which is already weeks late (due to wet weather) and could soon be flattened and useless.
They are blockading the Town Hall with their tractors, demanding action! In the country that developed the blockade into an art form, this is surely the most un-successfull one ever. You see our Town Hall is only part time and is open for only 2 hours on Tuesdays and Thursdays, during the lunch hour. No french peasant farmer is going to miss his lunch, so when the church clock, across the road strikes 12 they start up and leave; a few minutes later the mayor rushes back from work to open up

The Dog

The first thing every townie does when they move to the country is to get a dog! Of course it also has to be a country sort of dog and there's no exception here!

Much research on the net produced the ideal breed,fitting ALL the above criteria; a golden retriever. It's the same breed in french, except that equal weight has to be put on each syllable, so it's one word "gol-den-re-triev-er"..you try saying it! Through the same research I also found a suitable litter and the last remaining pup, the runt, was available. The issue of two champions she was a bit too short in the leg to win big money so available cheap, as long as I agreed to have her speyed.

Still a very pretty little thing, she became a great aid in learning french,because everyone we pass stops to talk, usually with the exclamation "Ah! petit mignon". This is usually followed by me trying to explain that it's not a labrador but a gol-den-re-triev-er, when this is established there's a natural progression to the weather and, if I'm really lucky, the other persons (whom I might never have met before) latest operation. I've aquired an extensive meteorological vocabulary and an equally extensive knowledge of the human body, except, that is, for the bits I'd really be interested in!

Like everything there are pitfalls and I have learned, with great embarrassment, not to make assumptions about the french language. All french nouns have a gender, most either male or female but some like dog decline with a generic and male gender i.e. chien and a female i.e. chienne. This often occurs when a noun ends in a consonant, the female gender doubles the consonant and adds an "e", like chat and chatte for cats

So chien has it's chienne and thus it follows that chiot (pronounced she-oh) for puppy has the female chiotte (she-ot) but NO "chiotte" translates literally as a SHITHOUSE !!! Oh Dear!! (which translates literally as merde)

You've also got to be carefull with a female cat because of the pussy connection

The Front Porch

These days I'm taking my morning coffee, refreshment breaks, aperitives and indeed post pranial digestives in the shade of the front porch.

It's not much of a front porch, being a bodge-up of iron tube and plastic corrigated sheets, but I've let a creeper grow over, which both disguises it and also provides a pleasant dappled shade, until the sun disapears behind the house after lunch. It's replacement is on the list of DIY jobs and there's half a palet of matching roof tiles in a corner of the barn, in truth, given the amount of time I spend sitting under it, there's not a lot of hope of an early start to working on it !

The older part of the house and thus the front porch forms an "L" with the barn and faces east across a gravelled court-yard to a small garden area. This later is dominated by a huge old cheery tree and this is a very special tree to me. Many years ago I was offered redundancy and although a very generous early retirement pack was also on offer I was pretty pissed at being thrown on the scap-heap at 50. We came over here for the first 3 weeks of March and I sat on the front porch, sipping a chilled glass of white wine or two and watched the cherry tree come into full blossom. I came to the conclusion that, without too much pain, I could probably do this for the rest of my life.

Went into work on monday, saw the peronnel bloke and left on the friday. (I know it's P C these days to say H R but to me they will always be the plonkers from personnel and what's more I'm not even certain how to spell it. )

Then, as now, the cherry tree always has a magnificent head of blossom, but I never seem to get many cherries from it. This year I have spotted the reason. The tree seems to be a magnet for every magpie, jay and red squirrel in the neighbourhood all of which seem to like cherries before they are ripe. The death blow for the crop is the blackbirds, they fledge on the day that cherries are ripe for picking and mums and dads from all over the village bring their young to learn all about the delights of cherries.

I have made an interesting and, I think, origional ornithological observation about blackbird behaviour, they are frightened of heights, as they only eat the fruit that I, otherwise, could reach to pick and leave those out of reach of even my longest ladder at the very top of the tree to rot and fall to the ground

Lunch

I've been over here, on my own, for some years now and am really getting into the french way of lunch.

Within easy reach there are pushing a dozen restaurants with a Menu du Jour at between 10/13 euros, thats £7 to £9 in english and is a four course meal with wine included. In most parts of provincial france most restaurants have a space with small tables laid out for one, this is generally known as "old farts corner", it's where they feed the lonely and the useless.

Personally, I prefer to ring the changes and visit a couple of different corners each week, but generally little social clubs build up amongst the regulars, many old farts eating at the same place every day or I should say every WEEK-day because from friday night through the week-end the single tables are pushed together for the more lucrative friends, lovers and familly trade: we old farts are on our own then (a bit like meals-on-wheels in the UK I suppose!).

I do have a favourite, where I eat quite regularily and although not a fully fledged member of the club am greeted with hand shakes and Ca va?s. But recently the corner has been thrown into utter confusion and panic; our old fart space has been invaded by a comely lady, albeit of a somewhat indeterminate age. Now whilst the old farts are not above flirting with the pretty young waitresses this is an entirely different and very threatening developement. They,as one, decide to counter this threat in tipically french style, they all turn up an hour later.

Unaware of the subtle nuances in play, I arrive at my normal time to find the corner deserted except for the said comely lady. Discreetly positioning myself one table away, I took my seat (this is not a french thing, they would instinctively take the next seat,not seeming to need defendable space like us). Soon to find that she's asking me a question and it's something about "Le Retro". There is much french slang that abbreviates a word to end in "O" for example, "frigo"=refrigerateur and "veto"= veterinaire; so retro? For the moment I can't think but suddenly it clicks !

All french provincial towns have what seems to us to be a throw back to earlier more romantic times... afternoon tea dances!!! These are invariably held in a hall called "Le Retro" So she's asking me if I'm going to the local tea dance; not wanting to cause any undue offence I answered in complete honesty that I don't dance because I've got two left feet. To confirm this unusual deformity she lifted up the table cloth and peered underneath

I found out later that I should have said "I dance like a duck"....viva la différance!