I took a break from writing whilst France was going too painfully slow. If felt wrong to write the equivalent of tumbleweed as nothing was really happening. The roof wasn't going on (in fact bits were falling off), the septic tank was still only real in our imaginations - even though I have no idea what one looks like, it's been a green equivalent of the Beatles Yellow Submarine in my mind for ever and Googling it would just spoil it. My energy came to a halt like a ten tonne truck doing an emergency stop to save a squirrel. Then I became all philosophical. There were other things in my life and maybe I'd let France become all too consuming. I parked France. On a shelf marked "A big fat lesson for Tom to learn some patience and breathe and look around him" Ironically in my bid to get some space in my head and life and to gear down I'd turned the vehicle for that into my new daily sprint. This time it took me 3 weeks to learn that and not 39 years. I walked dogs, read, nurtured my work network and spent time with people dear to me. I spent time with my mother during a difficult time in hospital for her. I also unexpectedly said goodbye to someone who'd been a dear part of my life since I was very small. Someone who'd been pivotal in introducing me to the value of the land and all that it yields for human kind. A farmer who'd planted an early subconscious seed of future French life in my 5 year old brain. Thank you David and rest in peace.
My David and I decided we needed to re acquaint ourselves with all things French, but particularly Le Monteil and our old roof with slates missing. We strapped on the loose bits of trim and Volvo'd ourselves to the Limousin for a weekend. Yes there was the inevitable cheese, wine and strong coffee and croissant for breakfast but more than that we went to the house. As we wound our way down the track, we saw spring desperately trying to make an appearance after the worst winter on record. We sat in front of our cattle stalls (or future en suite as we like to call them) and imagined how it was going to be when we finally took possession. Tables in the meadow full of food and laughter in the summer, hammocks in the trees, smoke from our wood burners in winter. We saw deer skittering away from us, bounding deep into the forests as we hiked the hills around the house. We saw views we'd not yet seen and stood in awe as fields, hills, forests stretched out in a 360 degree radius from us. Then we got pissed. Really pissed. Wake up in the night with your tongue stuck to the pillow and your pants round your ankles pissed. God French wine is good. We were restored... and that's how we skipped back to Britain and submitted our planning paperwork which should hopefully push the sale through.....
Of course as I write, elections are happening in France. But what about Mme. Mayor? Is she up for re-election? I've grown rather fond of her in absentia and have implicit faith in her as her pen hovers above our planning paperwork......please don't replace her. Future citizens #86 and #87 need her....
As for Iron Girdle, she seemingly is no longer news worthy. Or has abandoned her post.Surely not. As Greece metres out its emergency pocket money, emergency summits have become soooooo passee...I miss the chocolate brown trouser suit and helmet hair. They are always so reassuring as they bounce on the scene of the latest financial mishap. Although rumour has it she's plugging "Spain" into the sat nav of her 7 series as we speak......that should send the Euro towards a teak garden set and matching steamer chair........
