Progress at No 11

You either love old houses or you don't.  Whether you live in one or prefer to simply look there is no denying that behind every exterior lies an interior that intrigues, fascinates and holds a key to a secret past life that is sometimes hard to imagine.

In the hallway and our bedroom we are lucky enough to have the original floor tiles dating back to when the house was constructed sometime in the early 1600's.  I couldn't resist peeling back some tacky carpeting in one of the other bedrooms and chipping through the thin layer of concrete.  A sensible person might have left it there, the simple option being to re-carpet and turn a blind eye but tantilizingly of course the entire floor area has wonderful deep red polished tiles, or rather could have ....

Made rather good progress this week even though I say so myself.  Seem to have found a very agreeable team indeed to do the electrics and plumbing and this is of course worth a mention in itself. Not only do they appear when they say they will but they turn up on time, enthusiastic, smiling and doing a competent job.  His Lordship took himself off to the attic where he set about cutting up old German camp beds.  'No wonder they lost the war' he said,' if they had put less iron in the beds and more in their Panzers the outcome may have been entirely different'.  Meanwhile I have to rise above the urge to tear off the carpeting that envelopes the bath and crawls up the walls.  I know the tub has dainty little feet as I've had a peep but I am under strict instructions to progress with order.  Instead I have to transport myself to the day when it will be luscious but who could have resisted the huge old French elegant wash handbasin to start with ? not me.

But it takes commitment to renovate and live in a house of a certain age if you are going to retain its character and appeal.  It is not for the fainthearted and woosies of this world.  There are draughts, spiders, grime and discomfort along the way  but you won't catch me whinging as I recognise that I am priviliged to be in the position to live somewhere so special in the first place. 

Wouldn't it be lovely though if everyone who was fortunate in life just stopped for a moment and counted their blessings once in a while ?

Snow in the South of France

Carcassonne ground to a virtual halt at the weekend.  Awakening on Saturday morning to the eerie hushed silence it was easy to let your imagination run wild and believe that the town had been evacuated and you had been left in your cosy warm bed by mistake. Where there would have been the constant sound of bustle and traffic there was nothing.  Out came the assortment of snow boots, berets, woollen hats and thick warm jackets as we ventured out in search of a fresh baguette.  We encountered a handful of people as we trudged our way up the muffled streets.

2b bounced round full of the joys of a fresh fall of snow and the knowledge that everything would be closed and that for the day at least it was a forced holiday.  'We're going to walk round La Cité' he announced and before I knew where I was I was sliding along the cobbles and taking in the spectacular sight of the Medieval Bastide towering menacingly above us.  The tiny church under the ramparts chimed prettily on the hour, huge piles of soft virgin snow lay in drifts and where the moat was you could imagine you were walking in a never ending bowl of freshly whipped egg whites.  It was utterly invigorating being virtually the only souls wandering through the arches and exploring the tiny streets when during the summer months you can barely move for bodies jostling for space as they soak up the culture.

Everyone else had sensibly made their way to Les Halles, the covered market place, where they were tucking into a plate of delicious freshly sliced cured ham, chorizo sausage, creamy cheese and a robust homemade paté.  Partaking too of an agreeable chilled rosé added greatly to the ambiance and feeling of wellbeing.

Dangerous razor sharp icicles hung from the high rooftops overhead, fat grey pigeons huddled closely together in tiny alcoves, their eyes tightly closed whilst the few tourists that there were looked bemused and vaguely bewildered.

I took lots of pictures of course, I'm wondering if there will be ever be a day when I shall trip along with a luscious fat expensive handbag dangling from my arm rather than a compact little camera.

I doubt it, I'm really not that sort of woman.

As you can see here

The Noughties

The Archbishop of  Canterbury  hit the nail on the head when he surmised that for most people the last ten years had been difficult in more ways than one.  Whilst attending a function the other evening the audience was addressed, as is the custom, as ‘Ladies and Gentlemen’ but recollecting my own experiences of the ‘noughties’ they were a dying breed, people with manners and standards who knew how to behave and conduct themselves whilst in company and in business.

I seem to have been surrounded especially in the latter years of living in France by the most appalling behaviour, double standards and downright dishonesty.  I’ve witnessed first hand theft, vigorously denied as they all closed ranks on the newcomers. I’ve felt the brunt of French bureaucracy as blatant corruption is allowed to pass unchallenged and I’ve been at the forefront and felt the most depressing apathy and disinterest as people turn their backs unless it benefitted them personally.   It was summed up eloquently for me though as these same old hypocrites smugly living their boring narrow lives picked over my belongings like vultures on an old carcass, items carefully put aside for a charity that benefitted people less fortunate and yet through lack of time the scavengers spied their opportunity and swooped.  It was a depressing experience and yet I shall view it as a learning curve, there is no other way or else you would sink to the same level as those who delight in taking and give nothing in return to enrich the environment they live in.  May they rot in their own greed and corruption.

I always like to receive a little mail, makes you feel loved, wanted and appreciated doesn’t it ?although when hate mail arrives directed specifically at the contents of your Blog Spot its time to take a stand and answer your critics back.  It’s the easiest exercise to sit and scorn others isn’t it? It seems to be the norm that you can abuse at will and that it is acceptable behaviour.  It isn’t.  If you don’t like what I write then you should take your sourness over to a dark corner and search your own soul for your shortcomings and do not bother to visit my mostly cheery sunny little spot where I am very happy and contented thank you and minding my own business.  I suggest you do the same.

Oh and one last thing whilst I am at it.  I must extend a special ‘thank you’ to my dinner guest who came round the other night carrying the filthiest cold imaginable and sniffing his way unattractively throughout the evening.  When I questioned his politeness of inflicting his gross germs on the other innocent and healthy guests I was met with an incredulous look that implied that I was the rude one.

I think not.

Happy 2010 albeit with a stinking cold. x