Looks like Spring, smells like Spring...

Around about this time last year I boldly proclaimed that Spring had returned and then found myself, less than a week later, under a blanket of snow and ice in sub zero conditions. This year I shall be a little more cautious. That said, I have been able to spend a number of pleasant hours digging in my veggie patch and cutting back dead branches and the like.

I received a beautiful quote from my friend Bren (http://www.ladieswhodo.net/) that I'd like to share:

"my garden of flowers is also my garden of thoughts and dreams. The thoughts grow as freely as the flowers, and the dreams are as beautiful"Abram L Urban

Gardening is an often used metaphor when carrying out projects or realising dreams and I don't want to live a cliched life, yet, when I am outside in this wonderful place, tending my garden and growing my business merge seemlessly into one another.

Recently I have got to know Mark Rendell who provides gardening and garden design services. What I love most are his designs for therapeutic gardens, often for hospitals but also for private gardens. Here is a man that truly understands the links between life and gardening. I'll give you two examples of his approach from his site http://www.thegrowingcompany.co.uk/

Winter is Wonderful – embrace this time of stillness in the garden. See the opportunity it gives for quiet reflection on the ‘bones’ of the garden – its shape, its size, its underlying structure.

and-

The Sun and its life-giving trail – follow the shadows and plot the way the sunblazes a trail through your garden. This gives your garden its opportunities and also influences your behaviour.

As well as being a gardener, Mark is also a freelance project manager and trainer and uses the insights and inspirations from working outdoors in his training work. He'll be visiting us here next month and I'm hopeful we'll be setting up some exciting workshops soon.

Well, the sun is peeking from behind a cloud which is my cue to pull on my wellies and plant my first seeds. I hope to bring you photos of my produce fresh from the garden in a few months time.

Photos: Our first daffodils, we know Spring is around the corner when the violettes appear on the lawn, primroses poking through the fallen leaves

Wants and don't wants

There is certainly balance in my life right now and this was demonstrated by two short episodes this week that I shall relay to you now. I contacted my dear neighbour earlier in the week to see if she was free for a coffee and a chat now that the hectic holiday season was over. It turned out that the only time I was free, she had already planned to go and give blood at the local community centre. She wondered whether I'd like to join her. To give a bit of personal background, I was born via caesarian section and my mum had a transfusion of 8 pints of blood to ensure we both made it through. I've always wanted to repay this amount (despite being incredibly squeamish) but have only managed to donate 5 pints to date. Having someone to go with and wanting to play my part, I decided to go along and duly turned up on the Friday morning. My neighbour handed over her donor card (32 donations so far!!) and then introduced her 'English neighbour' who had come along to give. There was a slightly awkward moment before I was asked whether I had lived in the UK between 1980 and 1996, I had. In that case I couldn't give blood due to the risk of BSE, mad cow disease. I was shocked. By way of consolation I was invited to have lunch (the French receive a full meal after their donation, not just a couple of rich tea biscuits and a glass of squash) but I was too put out to eat. As soon as I got home I Googled UK blood donations to see if this was just some bizarre joke but no, it was for real. In fact there are some quite heated forums on the topic should you be interested in the politics, conspiracy theories and bloody (or not) mindedness of it all. I hoped for a dramatic blood red sun set to illustrate this ditty but the sun was golden that evening (see above) so I channeled the emotion into my entry for a competition my writing group are taking part in. The challenge is to write a story in exactly 100 words, here is my entry:

Blood Quest France


Fear gripped her, though she remained resolute. Premeditated blood letting was not her thing. The seed had been planted, had germinated over thirty six hours and the harvest was fast approaching.


Too late to back out. the door gaped open sucking her in.


'Master your breathing. Conquer your fear'.


Deliverance served up without ritual sacrifice- YOU CANNOT GIVE BLOOD IF YOU HAVE LIVED IN THE UNITED KINGDOM BETWEEN 1980 AND 1986.


Saved by the deathly shadow of mad cow disease.

(The cow pictured does not have, nor has she ever had, BSE).

Two days later though and now we're potentially in demand. I receive an email from someone claiming to be 'a film production designer' looking to shoot his graduation film in France.
The film was to be a wonderful coming of age story about an English kid spending a day with his chic and sexy teacher on a french exchange trip. He finds himself at a heated family lunch with helpings of comedy and tragedy and a need to impress. With his mum constantly phoning to check up, this is not going to be an easy day but he'll certainly learn a few things about life, love and language... To cut a long email short, the production team fancied the look of this place and wondered whether we'd be interested in being part of the operation. Call me suspicious but my initial reaction was 'you're not using my home to shoot soft porn movies!!' The more rational part of me then decided to do a spot of research and discovered that the whole thing was quite legitimate. The next day i received a phone call from the producer and then began my bid to create a thriving film industry here in Montmelard. Friends offered rooms to put up film crew and stars and I waxed lyrical about what this area has to offer. we waited on tenter hooks until yesterday when we were informed that financial constraints had knocked us out of the running. Dissapointed but not discouraged we took solace from the director's words - 'I will save your contact and maybe I'll call when the next film with a bigger budget comes around'. we'll be ready and waiting!!

Funny old world, funny new year

As we move into 2011 (Happy New Year by the way) I pause and take stock of my life here. A couple of odd little things have happened over the last week or so and I'll share them with you now for no particular reason other than they made me think. When I started my little blog it was primarily to share my adventures, in words and pictures, with friends and family. It's great to see a following and I'd like to say a big THANK YOU for caring enough to read, follow and comment. Yet my little blog has also caused a bit of a stir and I was brought to account twice recently. I'd been spotted whilst taking photos for the remembrance day service by a local dignatory who enquired after my motives to my neighbour. My blog was explained and the said official then used a translation tool to uncover my comments and thoughts. I give a frank and, humourous (well it makes me laugh) account of things here and I spent several days fretting over what would be made of my scribblings. I was eventually summoned to put my case forward (having told Mark to bag our bags as we'd probably be drummed out of the village) and explain some of the terminology that google,translate hadn't been able to offer an intelligible interpretation of. I came away from the meeting unsure of my future - did they prosecute in France for libel? Much to my amazement (and huge relief) I was contacted a few days later with a request to become a contributer to next years village magazine!

My next surprise was to come across a blog dedicated to reviewing other peoples blogs (I wonder whether there is a blog that reviews blogs of people that review blogs - could be an opportunity here). There, for all to see, was a review of mine. Whilst the final message the audience was left with was that mine was a nice little blog, the word 'dissapoinment' in the first para left me feeling a bit empty. The reviewer was anticipating great recipes for snail and rabbits (the latter was mentioned a few too many times in my humble opinion) and, failing to receive these, felt let down. Always one to please, I was going to include a recipe here but decided to wait until my cook book comes out.

As things happen in threes, another odd thing happened to us recently. we'd been having a spot of bother with the front door lock. Although most people round here don't lock their front doors, for some reason we have a bolting device on our door that would rival Fort Knox, until it refused to lock that is. So, having looked up the word for locksmith 'serrurier' I duly made an appointmen and the gentleman came round to size up the problem. Having removed the five bolt locking mechanism, he explained that he would need to order a new one and this could take three or four days. Not a problem said I. It was some time later that I noticed he'd taken away the old locking system with him leaving the door not only unlockable but also unshutable. Our solution was to fill two suitcases with heavy clothing and baricade ourselves in each night. Bizarre.

Anyway, here's looking forward to another year filled with lifes little mysteries, rich wonders, joy and laughter.

New list of events now available at www.thereallybigdreamcompany.com

A time for reflection

Today is Remembrance Sunday and across the world, people are gathering in cities, towns and, in my case, small villages, to remember those who died during wars. There are two monuments in Montmelard and, as a consequence, there were two services of remembrance today. The anticipated rain held off and the first gathering took place as the bell from the village church struck 11. A few kilometres outside the village is the memorial at Combrenot. Here on the 11th September 1943, the first exchange took place between the resistance fighters and the germans. Four yound villagers lost their lives and there were further reprisals when the germans burned a number of homes and deported Jean and Jeanne Labrosse to concentration camps from which they never returned. I was able to speak to their daughter in law, an elderly lady now, who keeps their memory alive by posting the story of what happened to them on the monument every armistice. Her father in law was almost 70 years old, a frail man, who had moved to the farmhouse, just a few hundred yards from this monument, some 10 days before the nazi soldiers arrived. After killing all the farm animals (even the cats and dogs) Jean was sent off to Mauthausen in Austria whilst his wife ended her days in Ravensbruck, Germany. Both were dead within the year.

But as we stood by the roadside, listening first to a local band and then to the mayor before accompanying an elderly 'combatant' to lay a wreath, there was an air of quiet and peace about the gathering, a feeling of camaraderie and closeness.

Once the fallen from the second world war had been honoured, we returned to the Place des morts in the village centre. A repeat performance was given before a slightly larger crowd before, in time honoured tradition, we moved into the village hall for wine and chocolate biscuits. A lady moved among us collecting for the French equivalent of the British Poppy appeal, here known as Le bleuet - cornflower. Instead of a flower, we were given a small sticker to display with a picture of a cornflower on it and the words: La memire se transmet, l'espoir se donne - Memory is handed down and hope is given.

I don't have any great words of wisdom to offer on all this, I just know that as I walked back down the lane to my home, it was hard to imagine mans inhumanity to man, great suffering and great heartache. I feel for the lady who lost her in laws and for anyone who has lost someone they love. I am just grateful that, whilst conflict rages in many parts of the world, here we are safe and protected. I am also glad that so many children and joung people were present today, I hope this acts as a reminder to us that we have a lot to be grateful for.

I

In remembrance of times gone by

Whilst life here comes as close to perfect as it gets, there are those odd moments when things get a little shaky and this week I was confronted with a bit of a dilema. One of the French institutions that I find unfathomable but intriguing all the same, is the village dispute. Passions run deep over here and fence sitting is not one of the french strong points. Our village has a population of around 300 and we are deeply divided along the lines of 'For the mayor' or 'Against the mayor'. To some our mayor is a jumped up oportunist with ideas above his station. He is more interested in a quick deal and personal glorification than the welfare of the village. To others he is seen as progressive, outward looking, seeking to place Montmelard on a wider platform than the village boundary lines. To me, he gave permission for us to put up some signs highlighting where we are, gave his blessing to the barn conversion and seemed genuinely happy to conduct our wedding service as and when we get around to naming the date. So, my dilema- Last weekend a flyer arrived in the post box announcing an afternoon of cine film up in the village hall depicting village life from 1973-1980. I enjoy history, particularly local history, so this seemed a great opportunity to take a look at the village pre my arrival. I called my neighbour, full of enthusiasm, to see whether she wanted to come with me. 'Non!!' It appeared that the film had been put together by a group that were 'against the mayor' and as such we should boycot. My neighbour has been a good friend and so I decided that, on this occasion, I would stay home. Two days later I was visiting Cote Pain, an exceptional baker just at the top of our road, who specialise in rustic 'artisanal' breads. Their chocolate and nut bread really is to die for and it is one of our little treats we indulge ourselves with. The lady who runs Cote Pain had said she was happy to display some of our leaflets so I had taken a batch up to her and these had been lovingly displayed on a small table next to the 5 grain loaves. As I was leaving, a sheet of paper was pressed into my hand. I recognised it as the advert for the film show. 'Please will you come and support us at this show, it would mean a lot?' I mumbled that I would love to and left, blushing. So, support the show to support my breadmaking friends (who were supporting my business) but be labeled as 'against the mayor' or stay at home, please my neighbour and be labeled as a mayor follower. How did this happen? In the end, interest in the film won the day and, dragging Mark with me, we spent a very enjoyable couple of hours watching footage from 35 years ago. We spotted people we now know, all well into middle age, as youngsters and tried to recognise places that have since been renovated. At the interval there was home made cake (we took 5 pieces to save the young lady serving having to find some change) and a raffle. By the time I got home there was an email waiting for me from my neighbour. her mother in law had spotted me in the audience. I owned up and emphasised that I was there purely in a research capacity and in no way did it reflect my politics. I think I've been let off.

So, onto one other great french institution - Jean Michel Jarre. Mark and I have quite different music tastes and when we first moved in together were astounded when we could only find one album we had in common (The Pussycat Dolls!)Yet we both like JMJ, although I confess I probably haven't listened to any of his music since the 80s. In need of a night out we headed down to Lyon to watch this legend in concert. What a showman, what a show. The celebrated laser show was jaw droppingly impressive and JMJ, although he must be into his 50s, moved with the energy and suppleness of someone half his age. Excellent. We've now been humming Oygene IV and Equinox for a week so probably need to get out again soon!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zHFpST_5tp0&feature=related

By the way, the postcards of Montmelard are from the turn of the last century, we're a little behind the times here but had moved on from horse and carts by 1976!!

Seasons of mist...

John Keats, 'To Autumn'

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;

Conspiring with him how to load and bless

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;

To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,

And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;

To swell the ground, and plump the hazel shells

With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,

And still more, later flowers for the bees,

Until they think warm days will never cease,

For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.

I was wandering back along the lane from my neighbours house this evening trying to summon up the words that would do justice to the world around me. Suddenly I was struck by the realisation that I had stumbled into John Keats’s poem ‘To Autumn’. Now it’s been a good 35 years since I studied this poem at school, and as I tried to draw long forgotten stanzas from the depths of ‘o’ level memories, fleeting words reappeared whilst whole lines played just outside by consciousness. I remembered the embarrassment at having to read the word ‘bosom’ out loud and a faint nausea at the thought of the ground swelling. I also know that the poet was describing early September and not the first of November but somehow so much of this verse describes this valley this evening so perfectly. I am used to seeing the dips in the landscape filled with mist (or more accurately for this time of year - fog) in the early morning. But as the sun was setting it reflected on pockets of low lying cloud in the lower valleys beyond our own. The vines around our living room window are heavy with fruit that I really should have harvested several weeks back. Now they have swollen to the point of bursting and, departing from a poetic vision for just a moment, I will have to get the Windolene out soon to wipe off the smears of exploded grape from the French windows. We have ‘moss’d cottage trees’ a plenty here and as I drive 100 metres in any direction I am bound to leave a trail of apple juice as my tyres mulch the wind falls – not long until the smell of cider permeates the morning air. Unfortunately the quinces have been filled with ripeness to beyond their core (again, an oversight on my part had left them a tad too long before collection) and are now brightening the lawn in the orchard with their yellow, decaying bulk. The raspberries have decided to have one last bash at fruiting before winter arrives and provided me with little snacks as I transplanted black currants and gooseberries in the potager. This is the land of plenty!

Just re-reading the poem and picking up on some pertinent words – ‘swell’, ‘plump’ and yes, ‘bosom’, makes me think of a picture that I was given by one of the artists here two weeks ago. Christine Angell painted ‘The lady of the cake’ – a play on Tennysons ‘The lady of the lake’. I love this painting, this is a woman who, to my mind, has had too much of everything good in life. She positively bursts with energy and exudes joie de vivre. She has certainly been blessed, and, I feel I have too.

Authenticity

I drove home from the supermarket the other day pondering what I wanted to blog about this week. The trees were turning gold and fiery- that would provide some great photos, the mushrooms were pushing through the damp grass – a recipe for risotto perhaps? It was then that I was suddenly struck by a huge sense of déjà vu; I’ve been writing my blog a year and am in danger of repeating myself!

This week we’re hosting ‘Art from Imagination’ with Nicola Slattery here at Les Cerisiers but one of the guests, the hugely talented and generous mixed media artist Milliande Demetriou http://www.milliande.com/ has been here a few days already. We’ve been chatting about our desires to live authentic lives – lives that reflect who we are and what we want to get out of our time here. Having been discouraged from pursuing an artistic career at an early age, she trained in the sciences. It has taken a while (but she got there in the end) to reconnect with her creative self and live the life she chooses for herself. Milliande has got me thinking of how authentic a life I am now living.

It was only a couple of weeks ago that I stood in the barn alongside a group of wonderful North American women belting out the lyrics from Edith Piaf’s ‘Je ne regretted rien’. What a powerful song. As I understand it, the message is that everything that has gone before, the good, the bad, the painful and the joyous, all combine to create where and who, we are now. There have certainly been a few painful moments along the path to setting up the really big dream company – most of these connected with France Telecom and plumbing (the house’s, not mine!!) but some connected to self doubt, fear of failure, being overwhelmed by the amount to do and fatigue. There have been a number of times when I have had to take myself outside into the orchard and give myself a stern talking to –
‘OK, if you think it’s too much effort just pack your bag, put the house on the market, go back to the UK and get yourself a 9-5 office job’.
I come back at myself with –
‘But I love it here. It feels right. I’ll just concentrate on one or two things for a day or two and see how it goes’. I then come back inside ready to get on with things. The ‘being authentic’ for me, is simply knowing that being here, surrounded by this beautiful valley, living in this inspirational space, feels exactly right.

In all the running around, setting up events, marketing, publicising, cooking, cleaning, organising – I do sometimes forget to ask myself what I’d like to be doing for me (why is it we so often put our own pleasures, hobbies, indulgences to one side?). To remedy this I’ve set up a writing group with a couple of friends and our first assignment is to enter a writing competition with the theme of ‘Paris’. I’ll be taking as my subject another woman who lived an unconventional yet ‘authentic’ life Colette. As well as writing about Colette, I’m also planning on spending a bit more time ‘in the moment’. It is easy to spend time analysing what has gone before. It is also a habit of mine to focus on the future, what I want to do, whom I need to contact, etc. But amazing things happen when you are completely in the present. I went and sat in the barn the other morning – carefully selected the chair I wanted to sit in and then closed my eyes. After a moment or two I heard a scuffling and opened my eyes to see that a coal tit had somehow flown in. I watched as it flew from one end of the barn to the other, clutching to the stone interior walls to reassess the situation from time to time. Despite opening a window, the bird flew into a pane of glass, stunning itself. I picked it up and cradled it in my hands gently stroking its head. We sat, both of us surprised by the close presence of the other, for several minutes before the bird flew off. Before it left in pooped on my hand – my mum says that’s lucky!

Sketch by Milliande Demetriou