Saturday 31 March 2007

Does my "boites aux lettres" measure up?

As mentioned in a previous blog entry of mine, I am always occupied with some type of paperwork for a dossier. If you move here, be warned, dossiers are part and parcel of everyday life. Paperwork can be required for the most suprising items.

This week a visit from my Postman left me speechless. He arrived with a 2 page form, drawings included! to check if my “boite aux lettres” was “regulariser”. Well was it, apparently the answer was yes by a centimetre.

As the measuring of the box, two page form and the cup of coffee had already taken up the best part of the morning, I did not dare to enquire what would have happened if my post box had not measured up to standards! Any idea anyone and why is it important?

Friday 23 March 2007

Does licked cutlery count?

Calling all mothers of 3 year old boys, “Au Secour”!! My 3 year old, (well 3 in May), has driven me to distraction today and had the tantrum of all tantrums whilst we were visiting friends for an alfresco dejeuner. A very windy alfresco dejeuner.

Trying to get a snarling, toddler mid-tantrum into a car seat whilst doing the obligatory 3 kiss goodbye to all the guests is no easy feat. Yes, it is 3 kisses in the Cevennes so hello and goodbyes tend to go on………….

All the way home I kept thinking, “just wait till Daddy phones tonight mister man”.

Well they say timing is everything and just before Daddy rang, upon finishing his dinner, Théo came up to me and whilst giving me a huge hug said "me sorry Mummy, Théo happy, good boy now”. He then proudly handed me his licked cutlery and whilst opening the cutlery drawer said with pride, “Théo clean it Mummy”!

Does licked cutlery count as a heartfelt apology?

Tuesday 20 March 2007

Playboy Bunny vs Dorothée

This morning, comme d’habitude, I popped into our local Café for a cafe-crème and noted with interest and irony the 2 new pinball machines sat side by side.

Being in true hunting country here, the most popular being chasse au sanglier, the first machine had 2 generously proportioned guns that invited you to hunt a range of game. The chasse started with fairly large sized bunnies popping up everywhere and then as your aim and testosterone levels rose along came the bears, sangliers etc.

My three year old son, Théo, was fascinated and as he attends the local Crèche started making bunnies ears and singing that French favourite, Ce matin un lapin by Dorothée (Click here to watch original Ce Matin ....)

Everyone found this most amusing and a kind gentlemen bought him a sirop de fraise for his efforts.

His eyes then alighted upon the 2nd pinball machine with its ever famous Playboy bunny logo, “what’s that mummy”?

Ah I said, “I don’t think you will be ready to play that bunny game for another 15 years or so” …………………….!

Monday 19 March 2007

Parlez vous Francais?

When I arrived here the sum total of my spoken French was the ability to count up to 20, say please and thank you and …… well that was about it.

So I unpacked my new set of language CD’s and started ………….. rien! I quickly grew bored so I decided to start listening to one of my local radio stations.

Well I can only say that it was set circa The Jimmy Young show in the UK. It had hilarious phone-ins with “Recette du Jour” being the most popular amongst them. Caller after caller suggesting another thing you could do with asparagus or whatever legume happened to be in season. Hmmm, very useful you thought until about the fifth caller. Then you frankly felt like stuffing your asparagus where the sun doesn’t shine.

However, my French was getting better as I became addicted. What exactly was a “Femme au Foyer” – housewife as it turns out. The presenter was also likely to ask every other caller if they were going to “profite du soleil” that day.

Finally, I had to remove this station from my play list when a female caller upon answering the football quiz question correctly, was asked in all seriousness if her husband or another male relative was in the house helping her! When the presenter had ascertained that she did not live with a man he asked if she actually wanted her prize, a pair of sought after match tickets.

Shame as I really enjoyed my “hairbrush” moments when they played the hits of Cloclo, (Claude François). Alexendrie – Alexandra , oh don’t get me started.

Saturday 17 March 2007

You’ve Got Comments

I logged on, opened my blog and there it was – my first comment. Okay, not comments in the plural but still…….

Was it as memorable for you as it was for me, I am referring of course to all you bloggers out there. You never forget your first!! So a big thank you to my first – Peter.

Peter runs a local community website for anglophones in this part of the world. Please visit their forum at:
http://www.the-languedoc-page.com/forum.

Thursday 15 March 2007

It's a Whole New world

Wow this is addictive and I am not just talking about the wine that accompanies these blogging sessions.

In my first 24 hours as a blogger I have managed to post some background articles, work my way around changing the template and gather some photos.

Has anyone ever watched the film with Meg Ryan called "You've got Mail" well I am now logging onto my computer and waiting for "You've got Comments"!

Whilst not essential I really want to experience the power of the web personally. It fascinates me that anyone - literally anyone from anywhere - could stumble across my Blog and learn about my life. I am sure others want to be read for far more nobler causes but I am just very curious.

As I am new to the world of blogging I have no idea how long that generally takes so I guess I will just have to keep logging on like an addict.

Is blogging the new therapy, my mind was buzzing last night with all the things I want to write. Gone were the normal worries of my ever smelly fosse septique, my child coping with having to be bi-lingual, collating paper for a dossier required by some French organisation (I always seem to have one on the go)!

I am finding it all fascinating and can see that the light from my PC will be burning into the small hours.

That reminds me, better stock up on the old vino!!!

Bienvenue Théo

Why was I appearing in an episode of M.A.S.H? Why was I lying on a hospital trolley in a medical supplies room? What was going on?

Just then a doctor swept in and apparently there was a 4.7kg bundle of joy awaiting me, carefully cradled in my husbands arms up on the main ward. After 14hours of labour I had undergone an emergency caesarian and the result was a lovely bouncing baby boy called Théo.

The next 48 hours passed in a blur, I was getting used to being a Mum and my poor husband spent much of his time on the road between the clinic at Ganges and our house.

Pretty soon I raised the question about when I would be allowed to discharge myself. Mais non, as I was a 39yr old that had never changed a nappy it was baby school for me. I could not but help wonder if our local NHS hospital in North London would have provided this excellent and much needed service. Each morning, under a nurses supervision, I had to “top and tail” Théo and never was I more grateful for tuition. I did wince for the poor little boy when it was made clear that the start of his morning routine would begin with a thermometer up his petit derriere! What a way to start the day. (When my mother-in-law watched me put this into practice she remarked that if he should turn out to be gay I had only myself to blame!).

I looked forward to going home and showing Théo his nursery, but for a novice it was comforting to be in a safe haven. I longed for a family visit with Oliver so I decided to be brave and broach the subject with my consultant in my best Franglais. “Ah yes she said, you talked a lot about Oliver whilst going under sedation and coming round”. “Well I don’t see why a family visit would be out of the question, now you have been detached from your drip etc”. I could hardly believe my luck and I asked my husband to come en-famille the following day, après-midi of course

I was so thrilled and so sure that Oliver would take one look at Théo and fall in love with our gorgeous baby, as much as we had.

That morning baby and I were up and dressed, both having lunched nicely and awaiting the nurse to come by to let us know that our visitors had arrived. I suddenly heard a loud shout, “C’est un chien, c’est pas possible”. Suddenly my room was full of people speaking French very quickly and I could just not keep up.

Of course Ollie was a dog, my much beloved Weimaraner, yes he has had all his injections. What had they been expecting? Apparently, it turned out, an older brother for Théo – the none hairy kind!

Eventually a compromise was reached and I was allowed to walk by the beautiful river, that flows by the Polyclinic in Ganges, for half an hour with a much wrapped up Théo, my husband and Ollie. Tout la Famille - i was trés content.

Meeting our neighbours - the fleecy kind

One beautiful Spring morning as I was preparing my "wake up" coffee, I heard excited barks from Oliver and the unmistakable ringing of bells.

Just below our house are a couple of terraces and passing along the top one was a flock of sheep, in a terrible hurry. All my old townie instincts came to the fore, who should I phone, pest control, emergency services, etc . Where had they all come from?

In plein panic and heading for the phone I heard a piercing whistle and the sheep as one turned their heads, and started making their retreat.

An apologetic muscular, golden haired, young man then appeared from round the corner and told me that he had forgotten about the new people i.e us. He introduced himelf, the sheepdog and the flock. Apparently our local bergér would be passing our house regularly with his sheep during the Spring and Autumnal months. A piece of information that the previous owners had neglected to pass on! And there was I thinking that the terraces below us were merely to provide a lovely view and to act as a flood barrier should the babbling brook turn into a raging torrent during the winter.

How very Jean Floret I thought to myself and immediately pondered upon the etiquette between the Anglais townie and the French shepherd, who would be seeing quite a lot of each other apparently. My London friends thought it all sounded too romantic and some of my girlfriends, upon receiving my description of the young bergér, wanted to know if he was single!

Well with the sheep came droppings which Oliver would gaze at longingly from the upper terrace. Then by cover of nightfall he would race down to the lower terraces and hoover up as much as he could with great delight. All the grazing in the Cevennes is rich with wild mint and other herbs and this proved to be a potent concoction whence digested by our weimaraner. About 15 minutes after eating this rural delicacy, he would race around the garden on some sort of herbal high, doing high speed circuits .

The sheep became a very enjoyable fixture in our lives, never more so than in June when in preparation for the transhumance* they were all dressed up in brightly coloured pom-poms. A true carnival of colour.

Over time we all got to know each other well and even the sheepdog tolerated Oliver’s enthusiasm as a would-be sheepdog. Oliver even saved a couple, one which had dawdled behind and got caught up in netting. My husband went to cut it free and walked the sheep home using Ollies lead, “well I didn’t know what to do with it”!!! Another sheep had fallen from the wayside during the transhumance and luckily Oliver found it 2 days later severley dehydrated and distressed but still with pom-poms intact.

One spring day a wedding invitation was dropped into our letter box, it seemed our much beloved bergér was marrying a local bergére. We were very honoured to be invited to their wedding and awaited the day with much excitement.
After the official service at the Mairie there was an open air blessing and there casually strolling amongs the other guests where several, yes you’ve guessed it – sheep, complete with pom-poms!


source Wikipedia:

Older sources use the term transhumance for vertical seasonal livestock movement, typically to higher pastures in summer and to the lower valleys in winter. The herders have a permanent home, typically in the valley. Only the herds and a subset of people necessary to tend them travel. This is termed fixed transhumance .

Some recent studies consider nomadism, where livestock move to follow grazing over considerable distances following set seasonal patterns (with the whole family of herders living in temporary shelters which move with the herds all the year round), a form of transhumance. This is termed nomadic transhumance.

Traditional or fixed transhumance, in which livestock ascend to mountain pastures in summer and descend to relatively warm areas in the valleys, foothills, plains or desert fringe in winter, occurs throughout the world, including Scandinavia, France, Italy, Romania, Bulgaria, Spain, Turkey, Switzerland, Georgia and Lesotho. It is also practiced amongst the more nomadic Sami people of Scandinavia. Transhumance is based on the difference of climate between the mountains (where the herds stay during the summer) and the lowlands (where they remain the winter). Its importance to pastoralist societies cannot be overstated. Milk, butter and cheese — the dairy products of transhumance — often form the basis of the local population's diet.

Wednesday 14 March 2007

Au Revoir Old Blighty. (my Blog is born)

First Blog entry, so with glass of vin rouge in hand to fortify me I will let you know how it all started .........!

But you are pregnant! This seemed to make my friends and family even more surprised at our latest news.

It made perfect sense to me to make all the major life changes in one go. So at 7 months pregnant I packed our jeep with provisions, chinchilla, dog and hubby and set off for our new life in France.

Many friends seemed to think that we should have a Channel 4 camera crew following us. With all the ‘Place in the Sun programmes’ proving so popular why not start that baby fund at the earliest possible opportunity?

Our journey was, to say the least, interesting and although the Pet Passport papers were all in order for our loopy weimarener Oliver, the papers for our chinchilla Rafiki were apparently not. I did what any pregnant woman would do in the situation – cry – oh and ask for the nearest loo. Finally, after solomnely promising that upon arrival in France Rafiki would never set paws on British soil again we were allowed to drive onto the ferry.

Two exhausting days later after leaving our North London home we finally turned off the autoroute and headed towards our new home in a small village in the picturesque Cevennes.

Now all I had to do was clean and paint the whole house from top to bottom, buy a bed to sleep in, move everything in oh and I suppose register with a midwife and Doctor.

But first, as recommended by every Living In France book I had ever read, I had to introduce my famille to the Mairie and let them know their voisins anglais had arrived!

Our Cevenol adventure had just begun.