The Seasons - snippits of my life.

“Spring passes and one remembers one's innocence

Summer passes and one remembers one's exuberance.

Autumn passes and one remembers one's reverence.

Winter passes and one remembers one's perseverance."― Yoko Ono

The change in the seasons is a time for contemplation.

I love to record the transformations in the family's gardens. 

The seasons make me feel "alive". 

Snippets from Life in France - des jardins potagers

Neighbours' potager wall

Life in our corner of France has a gentle rhythm that is aligned to the seasons.  Summer temperatures in the high 20's to mid 30's (celsius) with intermittent heavy rains, (clearing the air of its gathering humidity),  ensure bountiful yields from des jardins potagers, if one keeps an eye on the bugs, mildew and enormous mustard brown slugs - so strong that they can upend a flower pot.

Frequently I would see the tip of an inverted "v" over the high old stone fenced vegetable plot on the corner of the ruelle as I rocketed down the hill on my bike before turning right to My French Folly. It would be the derriere of either Sylvie or Christian who were bent over, tending their potager. Often I would find  produce from their patch of earth on the stone seat beside the back door - tomatoes, lettuce, potatoes, cucumbers and haricot vert (eaten al dente after being tossed in unsalted butter and garlic). Wonderful. My meagre contribution to the community table was fresh herbs - basil, parsley, chives & thyme - which grew prolifically beside the front door after being planted within a few days of our arrival at our house.

Stone seat on the terrace beside the back door.

During the first week of Autumn, a daily vision would be the neighbours sitting in the afternoon sun with a huge sack of dried beans (pods and seeds) at their feet and a bowl in their laps which would catch les harricots blancs as they were released from their casings. These white beans were then tipped into a big bucket from which they would be divided, stored and consumed in the coming seasons. I felt privaliged to be able to pull up a chair and join in this ritual and the ensuing family chatter. During this activity  I would find myself taking stock of my surroundings as we sat in the gentle autumn sun overlooking the village and the verdant green rolling hills and surrounding forests, hearing the now familiar  bird calls and smelling the scent of fresh earth.

These lovely old shutters keep the hot sun out of the kitchen.

Back from the Depths of France.

Life inevitably doesn’t go to plan. I thought I would be spending the last 3 months in France, writing, photographing, occasionally working on My French Folly with the odd foray into other parts of the country and Europe, but it wasn’t to be. However, I am now quite conversant with French building regulations, the legal system and hospitals! 

The geography of our French village makes telecommunications unreliable. No blogging, few phone calls and no television. I have now come to appreciate life without constantly being plugged into the internet, news and current affairs.

After Mr R returned to Australia I didn’t have a car (a long story). There is no regular public transport in our village except for a très cher taxi service, which I tried once: 50 euros to go 12 km down a country road. Consequently I had to plan my time and purchases very carefully - a habit I have lost over the years with extended trading hours and a car on hand, in Melbourne!

Although my faith in the kindness of others has been intermittently jarred during the last 5 years, while in France it was gradually restored - despite the dishonesty and unprofessional behaviour of My Man on the Ground.  In a nutshell, I’ve had a great adventure – one of discovery and personal growth, (yes it can still happen at my age). The simple life has great benefits. I can’t wait to return to My French Folly.

P.S. I am still jet lagged so it will take me a while to catch up with those of you who thoughtfully contacted me while I was in France.

In Transit

Our arrival in France has been stalled due to a few additional "mishaps' by the tradesmen working on My French Folly. On the plus side we have been spending the extra days having a wonderful time in Switzerland surrounded by snow capped mountains and enjoying the exceptional hospitality of my cousin & her family. I will be out of the blog-sphere for a few days until we hook up a computer in France.

A bientot

The 3-Ringed Circus

Courtesy of Google

The 3-ringed circus involving notre maison en France continues: 

• the wrong type of window was used to replace a large window that was broken, but overlooked when the renovation estimates were given; 
• the ceramic sink is out of production until September (despite being in the current product catalogue) - the person organising the insertion of the kitchen just went ahead and purchased another type without consultation; 
• my beloved flagstones have been taken up and dumped outside; 
• the quotes for the re plastering were so grossly underestimated that the sitting room, bedroom, hallway and ceilings have been left untouched; 
• the plasterer has damaged his ankle on another job so he hasn't finished his contract with us; 
• the bathroom is unfinished - the plumber started with another client so he is now juggling multiple contracts;



My French Folly. Courtesy of Matt & Meeri

• the new 2 windows which were to be inserted in the dining room have been scrapped because the planning permit  hasn’t been granted (as yet) even though it was submitted 12 months ago……well at least that’s what I’ve been told! 

What makes me hopping mad is that if the project was managed within the timeframe set out when we engaged services of My Man on the Ground, many of the issues and disappointments that we’ve experienced in order to get the house to a habitable standard, would not have occurred.  

If anything else goes wrong with My French Folly, I’ll “blow a gasket”..........I had a dream…… I had a budget………I have an expensive nightmare!

One of the views from My French Folly, Courtesy of Matt & Meeri

Busy Doing Nothing

I feel as if  I'm busy doing nothing, working the whole day through............ No sooner have I crossed one item of my Must Do Before I Depart to France list, another pops up at the bottom of the page. However, most of the essentials are in place:
ü house sitters (a sensible couple who will nurture my garden and keep the house ship shape)
ü travel insurance & tickets (plane & train)
ü  a small amount of cash of various denominations & an international VISA  
    card
ü a car waiting for us in Europe
û dry cleaning collected
û clothes organised
û bags packed
ü gifts packed
û leaving my desk at work in order for my temporary replacement.


Post Script: I heard from My Man on The Ground today. I now know that bad news from him is predictable, but whenever it happens, I still get quite emotional about it. Yes sh** happens, but sometimes its occurrence is just too co-incidental.

Bonjour France: French Lessons 2

French lessons at School continued..............

..................The following year my Form 1 French teacher, Fanny Bligh, is superseded by the young, dapper Mr Nicomidis. Immaculately dressed in navy waistcoated suits and pointed-toed European shoes, he cuts a striking figure amongst his tweed-coated peers. Despite his small stature, this newly arrived immigrant has presence and palpable enthusiasm.  At last, French spoken with a European accent, albeit Greek.  But Mr Nicomidis’s passion is soon thwarted and our learning stunted, due to his immaculately groomed hands. The nails on his little fingers are inexplicably long and filed into a neat, point. Strangely, these two fingers are at a permanent angle to their neighbours and used to point and poke the surrounding air.  The distraction of his hands becomes unbearable and Mr N starts to loose control of his charges. “You” he shouts pointing to an offender with a crooked little finger, “copeee the parrrrrge”. A page of text is thrust at a student. 
The class heart throb, George Konstansis, takes delight in devising new ways to raise Mr N’s blood pressure. Consequently George often finds himself locked in the classroom cupboard from which we hear muffled demands to be let out. Little progress is made in Form 2 French.

A new year and I move to a single sex school. Despite my protests and obvious lack of talent, I am to persist with French due to my Father, who speaks the language fluently.

Thus begins the dark days of Miss Ball, a small rotund woman with massive breasts, which obstruct her view, sensible lace up shoes and a very short haircut. The fun is over. Miss Ball is a linguist with an exclusive interest in those students who show flair in French or who are “pretty” -  qualities I don’t possess. I am quickly assigned to the marginalised group at the back of the classroom, where I am intermittently lashed by Miss Ball’s sharp tongue. My formal French education comes to an abrupt halt.

Decades later, the scarring caused by the ferocious Miss Ball still persists, heightening my nervousness as I organise our departure for France and contemplate speaking French with other adults who are actually French! 

Shabby French for Me - giveaway

For a chance to win this fabulous book, and more interior inspiration, pop over to 

Shabby French for Me

Bonne chance tout le monde!

Fingers Crossed

Soon we will be walking through
our French gate. 

The memory of the terse words exchanged between My Man on the Ground and me during the last 12 months is slowly dissipating each time I receive a progress report on My French Folly and an old hidden feature of the house is unexpectedly revealed. The process of making our house habitable, from 16000 km away, has been akin to childbirth - great anticipation followed by the inevitable pain of delivery, that was somehow blocked out of our consciousness when we first embarked on this journey. Once  the baby is is placed in your arms the memory of this dreadful procedure is suddenly dulled to the point that you would even contemplate repeating the whole process.

An original fireplace
has been discovered.*

I'm sure our trials and tribulations with My French Folly are not over, and my "baby" is not in my arms as yet, but I am now seeing a fruitful end to what has been a very long gestation period. Fingers crossed that all goes well between now and the delivery.      

This event is still celebrated at a local village and is scheduled so we can experience it first hand this year.
Courtesy - Google

* Images courtesy of My Man on the Ground

“Being happy doesn't mean that everything is perfect. It means that you've decided to look beyond the imperfections.” Anon
There is a sharp pain in my head due to tiredness.  The hour is fast approaching pumpkin time and I need to sleep, so here is a very brief update on My French Folly..............No dirt floor to be seen ................I am very happy!

The dining room/ kitchen.
 Courtesy of My Man on the Ground

Finally it's happening.

Patience is the ability to idle your motor, when you feel like stripping your gears. Barbara Jones

As many of you realise, my patience has been sorely tested since purchasing My French Folly in 2010.

Beware of him that is slow to anger; for when it is long coming, it is the stronger when it comes, and the longer kept. Abused patience turns to fury.   Frances Quarles

And I have certainly expressed my fury to my Man on the Ground during the last 6 months. But at long-last, it's finally happening - work has begun in earnest on our house in France. The dirt floor is no more, plumbing pipes can be seen and the plastering of some of the walls has commenced. 
Unfortunately the the old clos lit and adjoining cupboard are no longer - the base of each support and panel were severley rotted so they collapsed when the fragments of the remaining floor were taken up.


The placiste remarked on what a great house this once was.  He  found several points of interest that belie its current condition.  Some excellent sections of wallpaper have been retrieved as well as parts of a 1920's newspaper. I requested that any salvageable materials from the house be recycled in order to maintain the character of the building and contain the costs. So and I was relieved, and some what surprised, to receive a photo of one of the doors in the house that has been rehung in the kitchen as the door to the pantry. 

More to come.................... I hope. Not thrilled at the thought of camping in the garden when we arrive in France!

Historical or Hysterical?

A quick dash into the city by train, to one of my absolute favourite shops, Il Papiro, was undertaken last weekend to purchase some gifts for a friend’s significant birthday. 

On the return journey, just as the train was about to depart from the CBD, a quietly spoken family (father, mother and 2 young children) joined the empty carriage in 

Brighton Bathing boxes

which I was seated. The map in the mother’s hand and snippets of conversation suggested that they were country residents en route to see the Brighton bathing boxes. As the train made its way out of the CBD, the father confidently pointed out the city’s landmarks to his children. 

Along the train line, one can occasionally catch a glimpse of graffiti-art juxtaposed with what can only be described as ugly acts of vandalism executed with spray cans. “ Some of that graffiti is historical now”, proclaimed the father. “What’s historical? inquired his young son. “Well, it’s like when the Romans invaded bits of Europe”, explained the father in a less self-assured tone.

A 5 second silence followed, then a little voice said, “So when did the Romans come here?”  No reply. The conversation was skilfully diverted to the previous evening’s football game. As the train approached my station I stood at the door to hear a child inquiring, “Do we still have another holiday to go this year or is this the only one?”  The train door closed behind me. 

Next stop - Brighton Beach. 

Foreground: Brighton Beach bathing boxes. Background: Melbourne CBD

Autumn or Spring?

Autumn in the garden always has me busy pruning and fertilising in preparation for the colder months and the growth bursts of the following Spring. Our garden rakes and broom are frequently in hand, removing the bright tapestry of leaves that regularly blankets our front path - courtesy of a rampant Boston ivy.  

Withered brown autumnal cast-offs from the deciduous trees that have survived the prolonged droughts of summers past, form decaying mounds that become dangerously slippery if they’re not removed regularly. 

In the rear garden the vegetable plots lay fallow while being replenished by manure and recycled kitchen scraps that have been turned into nutrient-rich brews – a product of the frenetically active our composting worms. 

Despite the cold and wet conditions which now dominate our weather patterns, my mind frequently turns to visions of spring as I read about the gardening activities of northern hemisphere friends........

garden beds in bloom, 

plant nurseries  full of seedlings and potted plants in various stages of development, patiently waiting for a new home.

And what is happening growing and blooming in our garden in France this spring?  If only I knew....................