Wood

Been getting through the two woodpiles at an alarming rate recently. The 'short woods' woodpile is in the shed and consists of logs that are one-third of a metre long that fit the little upstairs (telly watching) stove. The other pile is stacked against the outside wall of the shed and is made up of half-metre lengths that fit the big kitchen stove. Seems like only yesterday that Georgie and I stacked these two piles in the glorious sunshine of a September day. Amazing how time flies, even though it drags a bit in winter.

Managed to corner young Hadrien on Sunday afternoon and told him of my dwindling wood supply. Having little better to do, he suggested we connect up Christian's (his dad) trailer, grab a chainsaw and set off for Christian's massive woodpile up in nearby field. The woodpile there is made up of one-metre logs stacked in a row about thirty metres long and two metres high. Provides Christian with a bit of much-needed income. A 'cord' (about the size of four mini van fulls) of wood costs about 150 euros (140ish quid). Reckoned I needed a quarter of a 'cord' of 'thirds' and same again of 'halves', making (if my maths is correct) a total of half a cord.

Hadrien set to work cutting the first batch of logs in half while my task was to load them into the trailer. If you've never stood next to an 18-year-old in full cry with a massive chainsaw, my only advice is this: don't. The boy's a maniac. Gloves? No. Goggles? No. Headgear? No. Ear plugs? No. Common sense? None. Due care and attention? You're joking. Needless to say, I stood well clear until the flurry of activity was over. Only then did I slowly start to load the trailer, with, of course, the boy-devil's assistance. Being the wuss that I am, I made a point of wearing my wood-handling gloves. Told Hadrien he should do the same but he pooh-poohed the idea (the wearing of nancy-boy gloves is obviously frowned upon out here in redneck country). Interestingly, later that evening, Isabelle had a bit of a tough time removing a splinter from one of Hadrien's fingers so neighbour Colette was summoned with her scalpel and tweezer set. I observed the fifteen minute operation with due smugness, his screams just about covering the continued ringing in my ears from that confounded chainsaw.

Logs loaded, I slowly drove back to the house and spent about an hour unloading and stacking the half metre lengths stash. Then returned to the field where Hadrien had finished cutting the third of a metre lengths, miraculously without cutting himself off from one of his gangly limbs. Loaded up. Bit of a problem getting out of the field. Evening dew, wheelspin. So the juvenile brain donor had to push car plus trailer plus logs while I steered and shouted encouragement. Eventually we made it, thanks largely to my superb throttle control and excellent choice of line (Hadrien would, no doubt, claim otherwise). As we exited the field, with light rapidly fading, Isabelle turned up in her Audi, followed us back to my place and gave us a hand unloading. Almost pitch black by the time we finished.

As you may have noticed, Christian wasn't around. Out all day on another chasse (hunt). Still hadn't returned by 9pm (presumably drinking with lads so he's in the doghouse) when I left Isabelle's after enjoying an aperitif and being entertained by Hadrien's blood-curdling screams. Went back home and slung a few more logs on the fires. Sod's law - Monday dawned warm and sunny. Snow all gone. Maybe I won't be needing that new stash of wood after all. Hah! Some hopes! If I remember correctly, it snowed at Easter a couple of years ago. More than likely have to repeat Sunday's exercise in about eight weeks' time. Ooh, fun and games.

Georgie working hard on the woodpile while I look on last September...

Shrinking woodpile, snowy apple tree, Sunday's pink dawn...

(Still can't figure out how to load pics in horizontal rows.)

Coloured snow

With all this snow the landscape's been bereft of colour for quite some time. So I've been fiddling with a few photos in this here computery system thingy and hey presto - colour! 'Course, it's all a bit late now because the snow's started melting (I have a very wet loo and shower room floor to prove it - must be something to do with the higher ground level at the side of the house ever since the council workers installed our new external water supply piping) and the colour's gradually returning. Well, a bit. Anyway..., snow. In glorious colour... (Am trying to figure out how to load photos in horizontal rows instead of a single vertical one. This new site takes a bit of getting used to.)

Redneck country

So there I was, Saturday night, just about to get stuck into a freshly cooked spag Bol that I'd spent an hour preparing, when the phone rang. Hadrien. Eighteen year old son of neighbours Christian and Isabelle.
"Come round immediately for aperitifs. Christian's brothers are here."
"But I've just cooked a spaghetti Bolognese."
"Eat it tomorrow. Come on round toot sweet."

Buggerie bolleaux. By this time I'd already had my daily medicinal dose of two large scotch and drys which was quite enough for one evening. And now I faced the prospect of a quite a few more. Plus liberal doses of wine with a meal that I'd no doubt be invited to stay for. Dammit. Didn't want to go but that's not the way it works round here. If you're summoned, you go. And that's it.

Took spag Bol off the hot plate, put a fresh log in each of the stoves, swapped slippers for stout shoes, donned fleece and top coat, stuck bobble hat on head and set off into the cold, snowy night. Arrived at neighbour's. Warmly welcomed. Joined the gang in front of the telly. Large scotch and dry immediately shoved in my hand. On screen, one of Christian's DVD Christmas presents was being viewed. Small herds of wild boar and deer darted every which way, chased by gun-toting hunters and killer hounds. Close-up of a woman aiming a rifle. Bang. One dead deer. Nods of approval from Christian and the lads. Leafy twig placed in deer's mouth. Another swabbed over its teeth and then placed in rifle-woman's pocket. Presumably some kind of hunting tradition. Maybe her first kill. Scene cut to wild boar chase. I cut to the kitchen to have a smoke and a quick watch of the news and weather - there's a little telly on top of the fridge.

Hunting's big in France. Especially round here. There's a 'chasse' on most week-ends during the hunting season. Step outside the front door on a Saturday or Sunday and you can normally hear a distant horn, or pack of barking dogs, or the crack of a rifle. For week-end dogwalks, I tend not to venture far. And always away from the action. Sprocket could easily be mistaken for a sanglier (wild boar) from a distance. Especially by a short-sighted hunter who's had a few too many Ricards at lunchtime. Or a pack of eagle-eyed hunting dogs lusting after blood. Jock recently almost got ripped apart by a couple of hunting dogs that were off their leads by a parked car up by the old granite cross. Wasn't even a hunt on. Just an inattentive owner. An off-duty cop. Those dogs are killers. According to Christian, a good young 'un with a top bloodline costs about three grand. That's how highly they're prized. And how highly they rate hunting.

As a typical animal-loving Brit, I dislike hunting. It's how I was brought up. The sight of a toffee-nosed bunch of upper class prats in red jackets sipping glasses of mulled wine aboard horses then charging off shouting "tally ho!" as they chase defenceless foxes to be inhumanely ripped apart by dozens of terriers, frankly, sickens me. However, I don't have a problem with farmers shooting foxes that endanger sheep or chickens. There is a difference. One's a bit of a lark, the other isn't.

Out here, hunting's necessary. Wild boar and deer can ruin crops. So they're shot. Yes, there's a certain amount of tradition involved in the hunt but it's not the same 'upper class' activity that exists back in Blighty. Anyone can join in. In a way, hunting is the 'glue' that holds local communities together. Although I've been invited a few times to go on a hunt, I've always politely declined. However, I have visited a few of the local hunt 'shows'. Basically, they're excuses for mega piss-ups and nosh-ups, usually ending with a disco and a punch-up. And if there is a punch-up, Christian's often at the centre of it. Ooh, he's a lad. A big lad too. Get a few Ricards in him at one of these do's and stand well clear. At my first introduction to the local hunt 'do' at nearby Gioux (I'm a poet, don'cha know it) he took a swing at the local farmer/mayor. Isabelle had a bit of a problem separating them so I rugby tackled Christian and floored him. Wouldn't have done it had I been sober. Farmer ran off. Discovered afterwards that there was a bit of a tribal feud over land. Christian's from the next village so he's a 'foreigner'. Rubbish, but that's the way things are round here in redneck country.

Visit any local house and you'll find mounted boar and deer heads hanging on walls. And framed photos of hunting teams and 'kills' on mantlepeices. And, quite often, hunting dogs in kennels out back. Christian has three. Did have four but 'Wendy' recently died. Actually, she wasn't a hunting dog but a big, black, soppy thing that, unlike the hunters, was allowed to live indoors. She liked her home comforts and was the matriarch of the hamlet. She ruled. Used to invite herself in and help herself to whatever leftovers were left in Jock and Sprockets' bowls. Quite worried me 'cos I thought Jock'n'Sprock would rip her to bits. Instead they attempted to mount her (waste of time - she being so tall) but were swiftly put in their place with a matronly growl. Neighbour Alain has hunters too. Or did have. He now just has one, the others died of old age. The elderly hunter that remains lives in a rickety old kennel to the left of our front garden in the shadow of the church wall. Poor thing's blind. Tough as old boots though. Has to be to survive these winters. I nip out and give him odd bits of grub when it's really bad. He recognises me now. Eats anything - chicken bones included. Wolfs 'em down. Although he's blind, he has incredible hearing. He can even hear the front door opening. And he always cocks an ear to Jock and Sprocket barking. The weird thing is that at seven bells every evening, he starts howling. Regular as clockwork. Not six bells or eight, just seven.

Anyway, where was I? Ah yes, round at Isabelle's. So, had a couple of large scotches then sat down to supper with the gang. Saturday night so gallons of wine with meal. Eventually staggered off back home in a blizzard just before midnight. Walked dogs up the granite cross in a vain attempt to sober up. Woke up Sunday morning with hangover. Let out dogs, stoked stoves (had to re-light kitchen one), wheelbarrowed more logs indoors from woodpile (snow in slippers), got dogs back in and went back to bed. Got up well after mid-day. Georgie rang and asked about my hangover. Asked how she knew. Said I'd rung last night (news to me). Told her about Christian and brothers watching hunting DVDs. She imagined them sitting round the telly, a'whoopin' and hollerin', and thought it was funny. Said I should write a blog about it. Which is what I've just done.

Chilly

Bitterly cold. Snowed all night. Still snowing now. Must be about a foot and a half deep. Or 45.7 cms in modern lingo. Stepped outside at sparrow's fart ce matin in dressing gown and slippers to let the dogs out for their morning constitutional. Clipped Sprocket onto his apple tree rope while Jock ploughed on somewhere round the back. Couple of minutes later heard a scratch on the door. Let the blighters back in and they headed straight for the kitchen stove. Spotted a couple of their calling cards in the snow. Nipped out with shovel and plastic bag. Hopped back indoors with snowy feet. Made cuppa. Broke up some stale bread and stuck it on the window sill. Birds appeared from nowhere. Robins first, then sparrows and finches. Blackbirds birds hung back in the apple tree, too timid to fly to the window. A few magpies and rooks lined up at the bottom of the garden. Broke up some more bread and slung it outside the front door. Might save a few lives. Dunno how they survive these winters.

Must admit that these chilly winters came as a bit of a shock in my first year here. The only heating was a tiny little fire in the rusty old kitchen oven. Fire compartment was about the size of a very small shoebox. Had to cut up damp logs with a blunt axe. Any heat generated was immediately lost to icy draughts blowing through broken windows and the gap under the front door. Looking back, I'm amazed I didn't pack up and return to Blighty. However, I do remember my determination to escape a country that I'd completely lost respect for played a major part in my decision to fart in the face of adversity, grit teeth and soldier on. I regarded it all as a test of my conviction.

Little did I realise it at the time but so too did most of my neighbours. Being a hardy breed of rednecks, they regard outsiders with suspicion. Especially 'les anglais'. For good reason. Their arrival usually signals an unwelcome rise in property prices so local youngsters can't afford to buy. What's more, most 'anglais' just visit for summer, without getting involved with the local community. Then they bugger off back home in winter. This, of course, can lead to winter ghost towns where shops shut down, sometimes never to open again. The arrival of 'les anglais' can be the beginning of the end. So, little wonder we weren't exactly welcomed with open arms when we first arrived. However, having passed that first winter test of conviction, I've been accepted by the hamlet community as one of their own. And so too, of course, has Georgie. For my/our second winter, local neighbours Christian and Isabelle got us properly prepared by lining us up with a couple of good, second-hand, wood-burning stoves and a plentiful supply of wood. Been fine ever since. Even the local farmer/mayor, who was noticeably chilly when we first arrived, now stops for a handshake and quick chat when we bump into him on dogwalks or shopping trips.

Talking of dogwalks, better give the mutts a run. Trouble is, that snow's even deeper now. Not sure Jock's up to it. Short legs y'know. Still, it has to be done. Then get some more wood in, feed the dogs, stoke up the stoves, watch the footy results (damn, there aren't any - matches snowed off), pour large scotch and prepare a Saturday night spag Bol. And I'd better feed those birds again. Ooh, it's all go.

Sound advice

If it's too small to read, click on image to enlarge.

Currying favour with the neighbours

Cheating slightly here. Nicked a recent posting from my old blog. 'Cos it makes me laugh. Apologies if you've read it before. I've added a bit since though...

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I've only had three or four cookery lessons in my entire life. The first was at scout camp when 'Skip' the scoutmaster taught us how to prepare 'twists'. These were lengths of flour and water doughsticks which we twisted around any old twigs that happened to be laying around and then dangled over the camp fire until they vaguely resembled bread. Needless to say, none of our efforts ended up bread-like. Or even remotely edible. Most of them either caught fire and were added to the burning cinders while the rest just turned black on the outside while stubbornly remaining soft and runny on the inside, eventually joining the others in the flames.

The second was when Mum attempted to teach me how to cook bacon. Being Scottish, she had this weird idea that a perfect bacon slice had to be fried until it shrunk to about half its original size, thereby taking on the consistency of granite and exploding into a hundred little pieces when pierced with a fork. Same with sausages. Her other cookery lesson, given just before I was sent off to college, was an instruction on how to open a tin. What I was supposed to do with the contents remained a mystery for years.

Next, a college chum wrote specific instructions on how to roast a chicken leg and boil some spuds. The following day he asked how I'd done. I told him the spuds were fine but the chicken leg hadn't entirely turned out as anticipated due to the cellophane wrapping and expanded polystyrene base melting into the chicken skin whilst in the oven. However, once I'd ripped off the outer mess, the inner meat had turned out surprisingly well, so it hadn't been a wasted exercise despite his slapping of forehead in disbelief.

Another time, Georgie gave me a practical demonstration of how to make a stew. Unfortunately my powers of concentration aren't what they used to be (oh yes they are: zero) and it all sounded so complicated that I have little recollection of what she said or did. But I do remember something about cutting the meat into cubes, rolling them in flour and then quickly frying in a pan to seal in the flavour before starting. Everything else was just a blur.

Armed with such a limited amount of cookery know-how, it's a miracle I've managed to feed myself over recent years. Out of desperation, I've frequently attempted to pick up cookery hints from neighbour Isabelle but, alas, without success - probably due to a combination of not understanding French and a lack of concentration during speedy demonstrations because of Christian's enthusiasm with alcoholic beverages.

Anyway..., being that time of year when a darned good stew goes down a treat, I recently attempted one of Georgie's afforementioned specials. Bought pork chunks, spuds, onions, leeks, garlic (not on Georgie's menu but definitely on mine), sprouts and carrots but completely forgot Oxo cubes (or French equivalent) and then got stuck in. Chopped big meat chunks into more manageable sizes (scissored fatty bits off for dogs), rolled in flour and quickly fried in pan. Then poured large scotch. Chopped spuds, carrots, onions, garlic and leeks into slices (being a proper bloke I couldn't be arsed with peeling the spuds or carrots) and put into two pots with water (had far too much for just one pot despite not including sprouts) which I placed on stove and then added meat chunks.

After repairing fingers with Elastoplast, I poured another scotch while pots bubbled. Stirred occasionally. Watched a bit of telly. Eventually the stuff was ready. Then had phone call from Isabelle. Come round to supper immediately. But I've just cooked a stew - tell you what, I'll bring a pot down and you can see just what a master chef I've become. Staggered down there with a potful. Isabelle took one look and described it as "soupe". No it isn't madame, this is proper Scottish broth. Long story but Christian said it tasted absolutely marvellous and had a second helping, Hadrien took one look and gave it a miss while Isabelle politely declined and stuck to noshing her own stuff.

So..., that was my first attempt at cooking for my neighbours. I then suggested doing them one of my chicken curry specials next. But they didn't seem too keen (the French aren't into curries... yet.)

A few days later Isabelle rang and invited me round to supper again. Quite by chance I happened to be knocking up a chicken curry with red and green peppers. Told her I'd bring it down so they could give it a try - a suggestion that was met with little, if any, enthusiasm. We kicked off with a pate starter, followed by pressure-cooked lamb slices cut off the bone with mayonnaise, and then Isabelle politely served my curry. I obviously had some and Christian decided to risk possible death by having some too, but Isabelle and Hadrien didn't. Then, surprise, surprise, Christian announced it was splendid and scoffed another helping. So Isabelle and Hadrien tentatively tried a bit each, despite concerns about suffering instant rear-end squirts, and they both said it was delicious. Thumbs up all round.

So there you go. Curry comes to the French outback. Might try 'em with one of my special spag Bols next. Might even open a restaurant. Yup, I've sure come a long way since that burnt 'twist' at scout camp.

Sunrise, sunset, snow

Rubbish weather. Grey and misty with snow. And freezing cold. Saw the sun yesterday for the first time in what seemed like ages. It rose pink above the church, drew a low arc across the southern sky during the short day, occasionally hiding behind passing clouds, then set beyond the south-western hills during the afternoon dogwalk. Hasn't reappeared today though. We're back to grey. And it's still freezing cold. Roll on spring and summer.