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Friday 12 February 2010

Snowdrops and Sniffles

Well, the good news is that I finally got to see the wild snowdrops along the lane to Bardies, always an uplifting sight after January's post- Noel plummet into the doldrums. I nearly didn't make it because poor Ellie succumbed to a viscious winter virus that caused her to cough non-stop for over a week. The pain and exhaustion of it all left her sobbing through her sniffles, which no amount of hot chocolate and boiled eggs and soldiers could abate. Why is it that when one's child is ill, there is nothing to be done but come out in sympathy? I should be thankful, I know, that winter bugs are the stuff of normal life but the hypocondriac in me inevitably goes into overdrive. It was with a heavy heart that I left for the airport.

As I looked out of my aeroplane window half an hour or so out of Bristol, I could see that the whole of central France was still blanketed in snow. After the endless grey days of recent weeks, the sheer exhilaration of seeing the Pyrenees sparkling in snow and sunshine was just what the doctor ordered, although Bardies was bloody freezing when I arrived. Just like here, our little part of France has had the coldest 'hiver' for thirty years. I kicked myself for not having replenished the kindling nor made up the woodburners before our rapid post Christmas dash for Blagnac. Scrambling round with a torch in the stable, nervously marvelling at how bats manage to avoid one's clattering presence, is a necessary prerequisite chez nous to firing up the Jotul. I vowed next time to do this before I leave.

The bad news was that there was a huge puddle of water beside the woodburner, and an even bigger one dripping through from the floorboards above. It had even caused the cast iron to begin to rust, so it must have been dripping for a while. The really annoying thing is that we had shelled out almost nine hundred euros, to a building firm which has since gone bankrupt, to finish a re-roofing job that we had already paid for! I try to desist from moaning about French workmen because it's always the same wherever one lives. This time, though, I'm really pissed off. At huge expense, we had the roof completely redone with 'flexi-tuile' beneath the terracotta pantiles, so that if tiles slip off rainwater cannot get in. Clearly, our builders did not do their job and I stupidly paid up in good faith. No wonder they went bankrupt! You can only piss punters like us off so many times before people twig what's going on. Unfortunately, the parcel stopped with us, 'caveat emptor' and all that.

Our insurer, to whom we pay the equivalent of a five star Caribbean winter holiday each year, says that we are not covered for roof damage. To be fair to him, it was pitch dark when he came, so it was impossible to tell whether 'la fuite' was caused by the weight of recent heavy snowfalls or from negligence by our recalcitrant builders. For all I know, it was caused by residual damage from the 'tempete' of last winter, for which we didn't claim either. I am resigned to being stuffed. My big worry is ongoing damage. The water has already flooded through the cupboard in which I store my spare pillows and duvets, and damaged the armoire doors in the process. It all smells disgusting! 'Une catastrophe' indeed, but inevitably part of our peripatetic existence.

Meanwhile, in the garden, the miniature 'tete a tetes' are poking their shoots up already. We only discovered a whole spread of them when we hacked back a mass of hypericum a few years ago. As 'Paques' approaches they are always a thrilling sight, presaging painted, blown Easter eggs, chocolate cake, wild asparagus spears and the new season's lamb. We have always celebrated Easter 'en France' and it remains one of the great joys of the family calendar. I love to fill the house with yellow daffodils and blue hyacinths and enjoy the opportunity to lunch on the terrace, warmly wrapped up, with snow on the mountain tops in the far distance. I know that it is still weeks away, but the anticipation is mounting already. This year, for a change, we may try to fit in some skiing in the high Pyrenees beforehand, one of the upsides of a long, bitterly cold winter here.

The garden has been very much on my mind of late, indeed one of the principal reasons for this stolen visit. Pascal et Pascal finally removed the warped and redundant tree and the space below is suddenly full of light. We have an old iron pergola there, over which have sullenly slumped some ancient, pale 'grimpant' roses for many years. I already detect signs of new life and I am looking forward to their renaissance this year. The border, sadly neglected in the shade for so long and strangled with hypericum, is about to be completely rejuvenated with a dashing new planting scheme, worthy of the late, great Christopher Lloyd himself. We are saving the vibrant red/yellow summer hues for the pool planting scheme, complete with ambitious plans for cannas and bananas, and instead concentrating on soothing pinks, blues, creams and lilacs. Our plan is to work on the detail between now and the beginning of March, by which time it will be 'go,go,go!' I can't wait. Watch this space!

The pool area is to be re-planned 'a la Beth Chatto'. We have struggled for years with grass, always unhappy with too much relentless heat and the salt water from the swimming pool. Now, 'finalement', we are going to have a go at a gravel garden. The reality of climate change has impacted even on our little micro climate. We do get significant rain in the summer still, but the unpredictability of it can cause us to lose plants much more quickly than in the past. Now, it is not unknown for it to rain for days on end in July or August, just when all one's relatives have arrived laden with suncream, shorts and sunhats, and then, when they have disappeared off home disgruntled, for it to metamorphose into a mini 'canicule'. Nowadays, we simply never know. If such unpredictability is bad for us, heaven knows what it's like for our struggling flora and fauna. If nothing else, gravel retains moisture, though heaven help us if it gets into the delicate pool filtration system.

The missing water supply to the pool still remains a mystery worthy of Agatha Christie herself. Karl, our extremely able 'plombier', has found all the pipework, which we had always known was there. When the pool was installed ten years ago, there was running water all the way from the house, fed by newly installed pipework channelled below the garden path. By the time we came to use the pool that first summer of operation, it had mysteriously disappeared, cut off somewhere en route. We have never been able to establish the reason, nor could our architect. We are now seriously beginning to believe that it was an act of sabotage by someone with a grudge against our architect, though, for what reason, we cannot begin to hazard a guess. Meanwhile, a hose is our only supply, which is far from ideal. We persevere.

It has been strange being totally alone here, with ghostly echoes of Christmas past at every turn. If I close my eyes, I hear the children's laughter, their music, their TV shows and videos. I see my family around the dining room table, Peter carving at the head. I see Richard and Jasmine at the piano, playing Tchaikovsky and Chopin, Julia and the girls with their guitar and violins, playing and singing carols, Peter on his guitar playing blues, Tessa helping me in the kitchen, Grandma looking benignly on. And behind them are the legions of our predecessors, celebrating Noel in their own unique way, like us but different. We are a small part of a very long chain, like the snowdrops in the hedgerow and the tete a tetes in the garden. Snowdrops and sniffles are just a small part of the continuum of human existence, are they not?