Out and About

Le Comte and I have been out and about. Despite the searing 35C heat we ventured unarmed into the Ardeche. In fact, we were doing reconnaissance on a small castle known as the Chateau d’Aujac. After all, who knows when we might need to move on to pastures, salons and chambres new?

Chateau d'Aujac perched on its rock

This castle is practically intact – though le Comte envisages embarking on several urgent works once settled in, including the installation of running water. The well (= hole in the ground) idea is très charmante but doesn’t really hack it in the 21^st century. 

  Another urgent task should we take up residence, would be to get rid of the girl that goes round every hour followed by hordes of people. I’m not sure I want everyone to know that the only emergency exit when the enemy breaches the walls is…well, there isn’t one. Happily, though, I think the Chateau d’Aujac has been lulled into a false sense of security. Despite perching on its hilltop for over eight centuries it has apparently never been attacked. Which means, as le Comte pointed out, the element of surprise is pretty much guaranteed.

So the only question really, is how to raise the army. We already know all the Chateau's vulnerable points (not many) because we followed the girl round too and she told us. But I’ve insisted that should the need arise and le Comte decides that taking over the Chateau d’Aujac is the way forward, then we need drones. No question. I’m not going in there with the inhabitants pointing their guns through those purpose-built slits. So I’m planning to have a word with Barack asap. As soon as he answers the phone, in fact.

The Yaris in the ditch

On the way home we took a little known back road that winds its way across the mountains. Only unfortunately it seems the back road is less unknown than previously and, on a particularly narrow stretch, we met a little old lady driving a Toyota Yaris. What the marketing people don’t tell you about the Yaris is that it's essentially a Dinky car, except that instead of being made from metal (like Dinky) it’s made of reinforced plastic. On the front seat next to the little old lady was a fluffy cat in a basket. 

     The reversing space was just behind her to the right – really very close – but she turned the wheel the wrong way and went to the left, where there was unfortunately a ditch and then a wall. Le Comte gesticulated wildly (which meant STOP), but she misunderstood and did it again, digging the plastic Yaris deeper into the ditch. We stopped and got out, then removed the cat from the front seat so she could do the same. She was very upset and prodded her phone hopefully but there was almost no signal. 

     Luckily we were next to a house and in no time an assortment people had materialised – grandpa, father, daughter-in-law, grandson and later, grandma too. I was hoping the grandma might provide sandwiches, but no such luck. Together they pushed and pulled and got bits of rope and planks and tree trunks which they placed under Yaris's wheels and bumpers. A cyclist appeared and immediately dismounted so he could join in the pushing – or pulling – as necessary. A man in an Audi zoomed round the bend and screeched to a halt inches from the Yaris. But instead of waving his fist as Audi drivers often do, he leapt out and instantly offered to help.

    In almost no time Audi-man was taking the initiative. First he disappeared under the car and then suddenly folded himself up inside it next to the cat. A rope was then attached to the front bumper and the other end to a truck, which, fortunately, the house-people had to hand. Then the Yaris, guided by Audi-man and encouraged by the family, the cyclist, le Comte et moi-meme, and the little old lady, rose out of the ditch and on to the road. The little old lady was very concerned about her bodywork, but this turned out to be fine, though there seemed to be a small leak underneath.

So it all goes to show that le Comte and I should venture beyond the confines of Coldspot more often, as it really is very interesting out there.

Fine wines from Domaine de Saumarez

Other news from Chateau Coldspot is that le Comte and I have purchased fine wines for our cellar to enhance our guests’ holiday experience (incase the pool and the donkeys didn’t do it!) and make the Happy Holidaymakers even more jolly. These are bio-wines from a small independent vineyard near Montpellier – the Domaine de Saumarez – so, free from pesticides and really excellent. We can even ship them to dear old Angleterre and they will still be cheaper than you can buy them in Waitrose. I advise everyone to put their orders in quickly, however, because if the Happy Holidaymakers don’t drink them then le Comte and I certainly will!

Chasing Sunflowers

Summer has arrived at Chateau Coldspot and the excessive temperatures have confined la Chatelaine to her boudoir where she fortunately has internet, coffee and a yoga mat so hardly needs to venture out at all. Happy Holidaymakers are slowly starting to infiltrate the gites, which is good news, as le Comte and I find we can have too much of splendid isolation, and it also means we will be able to eat next year. Our Riders from the East are here in spirit if not always in body and are assiduously keeping Ramadan. Last week at sunset they broke their fast with a meal of spiced sheep cooked in a hole they have dug in the garden expressly for this purpose. They have brought with them a particularly aromatic collection of spices and le Comte and I sat drooling in our quarters waiting to be offered some. We were, and it was delicious.

Terrace rather than steps

Spring at Chateau Coldspot has been long and rather beautiful. Le Comte’s building projects have thankfully drawn to a positive conclusion and it is now possible to get into the holiday apartments again. Where once there were concrete steps, there are now wooden terraces; where there was dirt and patchy grass, there is 20 tonnes of gravel, so much improved all round.

Bored goose

Despite their advancing age les geese made another attempt at starting a family and in the beginning things looked promising; several eggs were laid and la goose sat on them, shrieking at all who ventured near – only moi, actually. But life is dull sitting on your own in a disused toilet block, and gestation takes a tedious 40 days, which was about 30 too long for la goose. Or possibly she heard le Comte muttering about Christmas dinner and decided not to bring offspring into the world if that was to be their fate. Personally, I think she might have stayed on the nest if only le Comte had provided something a bit more interesting to look at. There was plenty of room for a flat screen TV on the wall and the time you can spend counting flecks on grey concrete is limited.  So up she got and off she waddled, leaving the half-cooked eggs to Mr Fox or Mrs Polecat, whichever arrived first.

Le Comte striding out

The Good Works have also continued with le Comte and la Chatelaine involving themselves in various fundraising activities, notably 25km a march along la plage squeezed in between thunderstorms; and a vide grenier organised by friends. Vide grenier literally means empty the attic – although it was more a vide cellar in Coldspot’s case, the Chateau being shallow roofed and generally short on attics. Funds were raised beyond our expectations and mountain people in distant Nepal have been duly helped.

Princess 2 turned up recently for a sadly brief visit and a respite from the weather in le Pays de Galles which is apparently awful (told her so!) and consists of many mists. Therein hide the sprites and sprogs and all the little people Wales is famous for, to say nothing of Owen of Glendower. But like her mother, la Chatte, she probably spends much time in her boudoir so it doesn’t overly matter.

We took advantage of her visit to cavort in Sunflower fields – harder than in sounds as the temperatures were in the early thirties celsius, which is around 90 degrees farenheit, donc, hot. But we took some excellent pictures which may become the cover of la Chatelaine’s forthcoming novel, helpfully entitled, CHASING SUNFLOWERS. Essential summer reading for all.

End of the Age de Glace

Oeuf de goose/Egg d'oie

Chateau Coldspot is defrosting. Spring is definitely springing though has not yet entirely sprung. Green shoots and other signs of subterranean stirrings abound. Even our elderly goose is going with the flow and has produced a solitary egg. Time was when the old girl would lay obligingly from Christmas until Easter. In those days le Comte’s pan-fried goose eggs were legendary. So fond of them was he that we almost bought a defibrillator. But things have moved on and we are all a little longer in the beak. One solitary egg may be the goose’s only offering this year. And here it is, pictured right; the oeuf de goose or egg d’oie depending whether you speak Frenglish or Franglais.

As usual, the changing season heralds the imminent arrival of our first gite guests. Not Happy Holidaymakers this time, but Horseback Warriors from the East. So to speed things up in the bunker I’ve been moved from gardening to painting. Le Comte has given me to understand this is a promotion (although he hasn’t been entirely clear on the point) and I’m hoping a pay rise might ensue. Or any pay at all, come to think of it.

My first job was the newly installed railings. This involved dangling precipitously over the stairwell. We’re not big on Health and Safety at Château Coldspot, but since this is la belle France I did consider having a word with my union rep. The only person I could find, however, was le Comte, and he wasn’t interested so I just got on and dangled. Fortunately, probably due to the yoga, dangling is one of my strong points so I’m dangling in there and generally doing better than expected. So far le Comte seems pretty pleased and even said he thought I was getting faster. I’m not, however getting any less messy.

For reasons which remain mysterious, le Comte decided the best place to work during my dangling was at the bottom of the stairs – which is where several of the larger paint splodges ended up when they fell accidentally off my brush. They didn’t make too much mess, luckily, as they came gently to rest on the top of le Comte’s head just where he can’t see them. I expect they’ll eventually wear off.

Le Comte tunnelling through

And the good news is that there is now light at the end of the bunker – le Comte has broken through. Which is just as well as we only have a fortnight to get finished.

Since the last post (as it were) la redoubtable (= awesome/impressive) Chatelaine has also managed to fit in a brief séjour to dear old Angleterre to catch up with Madre la Matriarch and other illustrious family members. I was treated to several pre-birthday treats. A luxury indulgence involving bubbles and hot stones from Prince A and his Welsh Maid, and a more chocolate and Rioja-based one from Princess 1 and her beau. I am also in possession of a brand new yoga mat. Merci à toutes et à tous.

Nepalrvt Fundraising Dinner

Last but not least the huge dinner for 26 people cooked by le Comte and his new best friend Millie the Moo from Kathmandu deserves a mention. This enormous repas was grilled, fried and mashed to raise funds to help farmers and their families on a mountainside in Nepal. And it did exactly that. Thanks to everyone who came and supported it. www.nepalrvt.org

Pierre Noel and les arbres

The Comte evidently thought I was underemployed last week– too much time holed up in my room scribbling (moi?), and not enough time pruning and clearing, no doubt. To remedy this he called in our friend Pierre and asked him to coppice every single tree on the property.

‘There,’ le Comte called over his shoulder as he headed off to his bunker. ‘Now you can have a bonfire.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Right. Thanks.’

Bonfire = Understatement. There was enough wood to create a wood lake. Enough wood to build an entire wooden planet to be launched into orbit with le Comte on it. Enough wood build a lifesize model of the Armada.

I thought seriously about my options. The planet was appealing but I really needed le Comte to finish the bunker before I sent him off into space. And I couldn’t see any use for the Armada since our river is quite shallow. The lake was just silly. 
So I went for Bonfire, but added some sss. I have enough wood to have enormous bonfires every single day for a month.   So that’s good.

Pierre is an acquaintance ancien. We first met him in those early days when we were fresh from dear old Angleterre and didn’t know one end of a goat from the other. He was recommended to us by Robert Mouton as being the only person in the entire department who would climb 50ft up a tree without a harness, brandishing a chainsaw. Pierre claims to be a tree surgeon. This is his metier, possibly even his vocation, he says.  He effects surgical techniques that are postively medieval in scope; no fiddly micro procedures here. However, I have blown his cover. I have discovered that he is also Father Christmas. How do I know? Well, firstly because he said so. He arrived to do some work last autumn just as his annual beard was beginning to sprout and simply announced;

‘Je suis le Père Noel.’

Le Comte claims it was meant to be a joke but it’s obvious to me that he was telling the truth. Where better to escape the paparazzi between January and November than holed up in the Cevennes mountains?  The French don’t even like Christmas much.

‘Rubbish,’ le Comte declared when I propounded my theory. ‘He grows a beard every winter to keep his face warm because that’s what country people do.’

Nonsense. He could knit himself a balaclava if that was the aim. There’s no shortage of sheep. Anyway, this totally explains how come he has no fear of heights. You wouldn’t, would you, if you spent so much time flying around the sky in a sledge? Balancing up a tree waving a chainsaw would be easy-peasy.

He broke our ladder today, however, by dropping a very large bit of branch on it. Maybe he’s losing his surgical touch due to his exceedingly advanced years; he must be several hundred. Le Comte is now muttering from his bunker about the problems of soldering aluminium.

Addendum: The delightful photo of the donkeys is nothing more than pastoral embellishment. They were captured on camera just after their morning swim.

Grand Works

Hard at work bunker building

 Le Comte is currently engaged in Grand Works. Materials turn up weekly by the lorry load; vast quantities of sand, gravel, cement and pipes. A vat of liquid concrete arrived and spurted alarmingly from a tube, petrifying everything before it. Large machines have burrowed dangerously into the rock and clay on which dear old Coldspot is built.  Le Comte, is, of course, having an absolutely wonderful time although it is all, he assures me, Very Hard Work. The official line is that he is building a gym and spa in the cellars under the Theatre Garden, but he has a shifty look about him. I know he is building a bunker.

Admittedly he has put doors and windows into his construction, but these are decoys, as is the running machine equipment he plans to order. Beyond the façade of floating flooring and ambient lighting are a whole series of breeze block cubby holes ready to fill with tinned food and brick up. He has probably been watching The Road. But when the moment comes and the mushroom cloud hangs over Charbonville if le Comte asks me to join him down below I shall think very carefully. What happens when that tinned food runs out? I too, have seen The Road.

Le Comte in his bunker

So while le Comte builds his bunker, I have been employed as Groundsperson. I don’t remember applying for the job, but le Comte assures me I did. Maybe it was that moment when I declared I was fed up with teaching English to stroppy fourteen-year-olds and would stay at home instead. It’s not very well paid but there’s apparently a lot of responsibility so I’m hoping it will look good on the CV. And if nothing else, it is definitely an education; in the Coldspot grounds I’ve encountered weeds I thought only existed on films. In this damp, cold microclimate in the shadow of the mountain very strange vegetation has evolved...

Gardening at Coldspot, like everything else, always begins with a capital letter. This is because le Comte’s thought processes work on a scale several times larger than other people’s. Le Comte is not a man who could easily plant ‘a few potatoes’. Rather, he would plant enough to feed Ireland then try to work out a way to get them there. He speaks constantly of ‘aggrandising’. It is his life’s work.

A good example was the Tomato Summer. This was the year le Comte decided tomatoes were the way forward. He would do tomatoes like no one had ever done tomatoes. He would be Tomato King. He duly sowed, potted on and planted 700 tomato plants which, lovingly tended every one of them, all flourished and fruited prolifically in the same fortnight. A bumper crop. Unfortunately this was also the fortnight when every other tomato plant in the Midi also fruited so there was no giving the things away. We ate tomato stew, crumble, salad, tart, rissole, nuggets… you get the idea. It is a summer that has receded into Coldspot mythology, but it was real, I was there.

Le Comte was understandably disappointed, but he learns quickly. Tomatoes, he concluded, had been a strategic error. A lot of work for zero financial gain. Raspberries were the way forward. You simply put them in the ground and there they stayed fruiting every year with no need for seeds and potting on. So he duly planted 400 raspberry plants. And they are indeed, still there. They have gone forth and multiplied, as have the brambles.

So, the Diary of a Chatelaine seems to have acquired some French-speaking readers. This is wonderful, of course, except that they speak French and have felt moved to offer advice. It transpires that la Chatte is not the term of endearment la Chatelaine imagined it must be. Unfortunately, her haphazard command of la langue Française doesn’t extend to rude words and she had no idea that her little nickname might imply anything other than a furry animal with a tail, whiskers and a penchant for mice. She should have asked the fourteen year olds! Quite why the Princesses never mentioned it she really doesn’t know...

Château Charlie

Following last week's horrific events in which the the staff of magazine Charlie Hebdo were murdered at their desks along with the policemen who were guarding them, all of France became Charlie in solidarity. To demonstrate the point, on Sunday afternoon the entire population française amassed in front of Town Halls up and down the country to support liberté, egailté and fraternité –the values upon which this illustrious République is based. Everyone declared Je suis Charlie and wore a name badge to prove it. And in case there weren’t enough people in Paris already, Dave C jumped on the first ferry and rushed over to lock arms with his new best friends, Frank and Angie. 

La Chatte upside down

Even the residents of local Charbonville declared themselves Charlie, or perhaps, given the religious affiliation of many of them, Ahmed, the policeman who was tragically killed defending the right of Charlie to behave, well, like a right Charlie if he felt like it.

Twenty-seven people, however, were not standing up to be counted as Charlie. Twenty-six of these had eschewed the chance of solidarity, equality and brotherhood in order to shut themselves up in a chilly village hall and ‘enjoy’ a day of yoga. La Chatelaine was among them, practising headstands and chanting Omm while the rest of the country solidified. La Chatte regretfully feels she has missed a moment, but there, it’s probably one of many. History takes its course without her and despite her. The headstands however, are definitely coming on.

The twenty-seventh absentee in the Charlie demonstrations was, of course, le Comte. He would have liked to have gone but he had some important solidifying of his own to finish before weather turned. So while almost everyone else was Charlie, le Comte remained Chris and got manfully on with his concreting.  

This morning la Chatte took herself into Charbonville to stick up some posters for English lessons that no one will come to, and to politely enquire about the possibility of obtaining the Weekly Charlie when it comes out tomorrow. The lady in the tabac, who is strangely named Madame Marriage (and she is, to a man with curly hair and beard) giggled behind her hand and explained that the entire town had already asked for a copy so la Chatte would only get one if she got up very early. This is unlikely to happen. Le Comte and la Chatte are not early birds. Nor are we, for that matter, nightingales. Rather some kind of starling that appears around lunchtime.

Quel fromage, all the same. It has such a wonderful cover. The idea of the Illustrious Prophet (May Peace be upon Him) being Charlie really appeals. So much simpler when everyone has the same name, don't you think? 

Noel, Noel

This year le Comte and I christmassed in dear old Angleterre, collecting Princess 2 en route. She was billeted with her brother Prince A who has installed himself with his Welsh maid in the Chatelaine’s ancestral homelands of Bicester. These days Bicester is known mostly for its outlet shops and eco-houses, but the Dowager Chatelaine lives there still in the estate bungalow not far from the station so it is always a pleasure to visit.

From Bicester le Comte and his wife progressed northwards to Birmingham, not on donkeys which would have been more traditional, but in a Vauxhall Astra provided by Hertz. Nor were there any stars visible, but this may have been due to light pollution that the Three Wise men simply didn’t have to contend with. Instead les Cs had GPS, much more reliable, and arrived without incident on Christmas Eve. Having thought to book ahead we were able to spend the night cosily billeted with the Comte’s family. The following day turkey was eaten, gifts were exchanged and Downton Abbey was watched by all.

On Boxing Day the three merry revellers journeyed through rain and sleet to visit the Vegetarians on their island in the south. Here we partook of an excellent spinach and ginger soup and chatted to the younger Vegetarians. We were sad to discover that the boy has been recruited by the Dark Side following a Stars Wars DVD, but delighted that the girl is learning to play the bassoon.



A sea wall

Finally the weary trio spent a day or two on the east coast tramping round sea walls and over tufty hillocks. Le Comte and I visited the town where we were married and drank a celebratory pint in the local hostelry. By the time we returned to the airport we had journeyed 678 miles round dear old Angleterre.
 

After a long day traversing la France we eventually reached Chateau Coldspot late at night. The heating had been switched off during our absence and the house was 6 degrees centigrade. Nobody took their coats off. In fact, I donned an extra one and wore them both to bed.

Le Comte and I had decided to take the youngest Princess back with us to France as we were missing her but she has apparently taken it upon herself to book a flight back to the Pays de Galle almost immediately. She claims to have exams. I have reluctantly agreed to take her to the airport on Thursday, as long as she promises to come back to Chateau Coldspot soon.