Winter turned to summer almost overnight, from snow to sunshine, in as much time as it took the gallant Monsieur Lebel to isolate the hijacked radiator, check the pipework and fire up the 'chauffage' - an expensive business. Daytime temperatures of over twenty degrees have meant that we have been able to dry out the worst of the wet with windows wide open. Dare I say, but occasionally it has been too hot. I had to rummage around in the garage for the sunshade just for lunch! I don't mean to sound smug but it really has been lovely here. Salad lunches on the terrace in March are quite mad but thoroughly enjoyable.
When I was young, back in the stone age, winter still lingered, sometimes quite viciously, in March. Wind and rain were the norm, not an aberration. Whilst river levels here are high due to snowmelt, the ground remain hard and dry, a sort of mottled green and ochre colour rather than the lush, verdant greens that we are used to at this time of year. The farmers are in despair for the season ahead. Unlike the Aude, our neighbouring 'departement', we have never had water rationing but our water may have to be diverted elsewhere yet. In the Lauragais, they are talking of changing their crops altogether because there has been no significant rainfall.
Some of us might have thought that Al Gore was exaggerating the case for action on climate change with his exponential 'hockey stick' curve but only a blind person could question it now. The landscape of our garden is metamorphosing before our eyes. The two huge lime trees are slowly dying of thirst, dropping branches in desperation every time a storm breaks. The lush greenery that once dominated the garden is giving way to drought resistant shrubs. The new borders may not survive a savagely dry spring unless gallons of precious and expensive water are sprinkled over them. This is a new phenomenon.
Ten, nine, eight years ago, we had some pretty miserable Easter vacations here. The family, cousins, grandma, Uncle Tom Cobbley and all, regularly huddled around the log fire wishing that the sun would come out just for one day. Back then, most Easter egg hunts took place in the rain and Easter was the least popular time to visit. Nowadays, it is better than summer, for the air is clearer, the storms are fewer and the snow capped Pyrenees are at their most dazzling.
Last year in April we had a spell of blazing weather, with temperatures in the high twenties, followed by a huge dump of snow which killed all our bees. Over the years, they had made their hive under the pantiles in the roof so I suppose that it was ineveitable. The terracotta, tragically, simply baked them to death. They have not returned. Who knows what will happen this spring?
Meanwhile, I spent a horrendous, hot afternoon in IKEA in Toulouse. And I thought that Southampton was bad! To avoid any risk of litigation, I will refrain from ranting about unhelpful staff, the complete closure of the loading zone and 'jobsworths' who refused to let me leave one trolley whilst I walked half a mile with the other one to the car. Ugggggh! I appreciate that IKEA is just a posh, Swedish warehouse but cabals of unhelpful young people huddled round a desk discussing their social life whilst 60 year olds calculate the cost of their next visit to the chiropractor is not a good marketing strategy.
On the upside, where else can you get nicely designed and reasonably decent bookshelves for under 60 euros? I now have a bank of them in one of the upstairs corridors ready and waiting for the arrival of hundreds of books which do not have a UK home. I shall not need to spend money on a gym membership this side of Christmas. I love my Kindle, especially for traveling, but there is nothing like the tactile feel of a real book for identifying with the aspirations of the author. He or she put it down in print and chose a typeface and spacing to suit. We owe it to them to read in it print. I don't suppose that such altruism was part of IKEA's mission statement but they certainly help to perpetuate our obsessive need to be surrounded by books.
I have been reading a lot recently about the 'passeurs' from hereabouts who bravely took allied servicemen and other evaders over the Pyrenees at great, and often tragic, cost to themselves and their families. I was lucky enough to be invited to a lunch with Scott Goodhall, MBE, when I was staying recently with a friend. Scott set up 'The Freedom Trail', a commemorative walk which takes place every July and has written a book about it. An inspirational man, he has done a lot to bring about the public recognition that such people deserve and remains very active in the ELMS society. He also helped Edward Stourton with his Radio 4 programme about the evasion lines.
Then, like the proverbial icing on the cake, in the Musee de la Liberte in St Girons the other day, I was chatting to the curator, the delightful and modest Colonel Guy Serris, about who was still alive. Mid sentence, in walks 94 year old Monsieur Joseph Gualter, who escaped over the Porte de Salaud in 1941 to join the Free French, landing in Italy in 1943 as part of the first Allied thrust. Books and photographs are as nothing compared with living history. We passed a delightful afternoon drinking tea and discussing the impact of the war on France. He is the most wonderful man, with a dazzling smile and a wicked twinkle in the eye, and I thoroughly enjoyed his company. We all owe people like him a great deal for the freedoms which we take for granted. Another evader, 86 year old Monsieur Jean Pierre Denat, a pilot, joined us so I couldn't have asked for a better end to the afternoon. Better than building shelves!
Wednesday 21 March 2012
Saturday 10 March 2012
Burst Pipes and Shattered Nerves
What a winter it has been in Ariege. Recorded temperatures sank as low as -23 degrees near us in the foothills of the Pyrenees. We get these winters, apparently, once every twenty five years. My friend, Meredith, much higher up in the mountains in Axiat, says that we have just forgotten what real winter means. If you read Graham Robb's wonderful and unique account of the history of France,'The Discovery of France', you'll see what she means. The mountain people of Ariege used to take themselves off to bed and hibernate for the duration, quite literally. I was very tempted to do so myself but instead took off for slightly warmer climes in Salisbury. A big mistake!
The catch on our bathroom window, inevitably north facing, had been dodgy for a while. The shutter had slowly begun to disintegrate too, leaving a residue of bits of wood and splinters on the gravel below. I stupidly ignored both, planning as I was to install double-glazed replacements in the spring. After last year's mild winter, and those before that, I had become complacent. Double-glazing could wait until I had created my summer kitchen. Then, to my horror, I discovered that the window had somehow blown open........ but only after my kindly neighbour had rung me to tell me that he had turned the water off for us because of the 'froideur'!
In a panic, I rang the ever gallant Tim and Tina who reassured me that all was not lost. They cleaned the worst of the dirty, melted water up, hung the sodden bedding on the line and began the count of broken pipes. Then, I leapt onto an Easyjet flight from Bristol to face the inevitable; fourteen burst pipes in the inadequately insulated loft, a number of broken taps and a bathroom radiator with a six inch gash in the side. Laurent, our wonderful and ever observant neighbour, will never know how much of our French life he saved that day. His speedy action resulted in little more than some puddles, a few stains on the ceilings, some damaged bedding and the necessity to re-polish some of the old wooden floorboards. I got lucky!
I have learnt my lesson. Mother nature always reverts to form. Instead of spending limited resources on cosmetic enhancements chez nous, every spare centime will go towards making the house better prepared for winter. Insulation comes first, then some secondary double glazing and, if the budget ever stretches that far, a solar panel or two. Oil prices have become so astronomical in France [currently, a thousand euros only buys us a quarter of a tank!], we try to use the central heating as little as possible. This is fine when we are 'in situ' because the woodburners are fired up. However, when we're away, the frost setting, which is supposed to ensure that everything doesn't freeze up when the temperature drops below two degrees, isn't geared up for temperatures diving below zero into double figures. I have only just realised this, to my great cost.
These old stone houses get sooooooooooo cold with no heating. When the sun is out, it's nearly always warmer outside at midday than in. This is a boon in summer but a disaster waiting to happen in winter. With no water and no heat, I was dependent on the generous largesse of friends, bliss for me but possibly a minor pain for them. They were all too polite to say so and, for that, I am grateful. I always try to be a good guest, bringing food and bottles of wine in, offering to cook dinner, keeping my room tidy and not hogging the bathroom or the computer. I have a mental checklist in my head of good and bad guests, born of years of shopping, cooking and cleaning for summer visitors. For once, I was a guest and totally spoilt. It's a life I could easily get used to. I had a glorious time and truly felt like I was on holiday, so thank you, dear friends.
I also took myself off to Toulouse for three days and two nights, courtesy of a great deal on Expedia for the quaint and lovely Albert 1er in Rue Rivals, close to the Capitole. Staying in a city is such a different experience from visiting for the day because, if you're like me, you try to walk everywhere. Suddenly, the signs from the 'peripherique' made sense and I didn't have to worry about finding a parking space. I was exceedingly lucky for the weather was gloriously sunny but cold, with a clarity in the air that only somewhere near the mountains can ever have. Even the stress of burst pipes and no heating paled in the glaring light. Whilst the grey skies of England had slowly been turning even the most optimistic of us unto winter depressives, Toulouse, even when bitterly cold, is a tonic for disheartened souls.
I was a woman with a mission. I wanted to find where the Quakers of Toulouse had been located during the 2nd World War and where Silvio Trentin's bookshop had been. I wanted to make a pilgrimage to the printing shop of the Lion brothers, where the resistance publications that had cost them their lives were printed. All were within walking distance, with the exception of the Musee de la Resistance and Deportation, which forced me to take my exercise for the day. I have long been fascinated with the Resistance in Toulouse, led by great intellectuals like Georges Friedmann and Jean Cassou, as well as with the bravery of the ordinary men and women who refused to acquiesce to the Occupation. Toulouse, the second city of the resistance, like the whole of south-west France, was not liberated by the Allies. It was freed by the actions of its citizens, many of whom at the time were refugees from Spain and other parts of Europe.
The German army of occupation surrendered on 22nd August 1944 in Castlenau-Durban, not far from us. Their surrender was, however, tinged with sadness. Just a few days before they had brutalised the little town of Rimont, killing eleven of its inhabitants and burning the village to the ground. Very little survived but the church and a few buildings to the west. A local resident showed me the where the new building line met the pink stone of its past. Our little part of France is steeped in history, pre-historic, medieval and contemporary and we are very privileged to always have something new to search out.
Now that the heating and water are back on, I am able to sit down and write. Oh, bliss! There are few advantages to burst pipes, other than the incentive to high tail it off to interesting places. Next time, though, for the sake of my nerves, I shall plan my trip in advance.
The catch on our bathroom window, inevitably north facing, had been dodgy for a while. The shutter had slowly begun to disintegrate too, leaving a residue of bits of wood and splinters on the gravel below. I stupidly ignored both, planning as I was to install double-glazed replacements in the spring. After last year's mild winter, and those before that, I had become complacent. Double-glazing could wait until I had created my summer kitchen. Then, to my horror, I discovered that the window had somehow blown open........ but only after my kindly neighbour had rung me to tell me that he had turned the water off for us because of the 'froideur'!
In a panic, I rang the ever gallant Tim and Tina who reassured me that all was not lost. They cleaned the worst of the dirty, melted water up, hung the sodden bedding on the line and began the count of broken pipes. Then, I leapt onto an Easyjet flight from Bristol to face the inevitable; fourteen burst pipes in the inadequately insulated loft, a number of broken taps and a bathroom radiator with a six inch gash in the side. Laurent, our wonderful and ever observant neighbour, will never know how much of our French life he saved that day. His speedy action resulted in little more than some puddles, a few stains on the ceilings, some damaged bedding and the necessity to re-polish some of the old wooden floorboards. I got lucky!
I have learnt my lesson. Mother nature always reverts to form. Instead of spending limited resources on cosmetic enhancements chez nous, every spare centime will go towards making the house better prepared for winter. Insulation comes first, then some secondary double glazing and, if the budget ever stretches that far, a solar panel or two. Oil prices have become so astronomical in France [currently, a thousand euros only buys us a quarter of a tank!], we try to use the central heating as little as possible. This is fine when we are 'in situ' because the woodburners are fired up. However, when we're away, the frost setting, which is supposed to ensure that everything doesn't freeze up when the temperature drops below two degrees, isn't geared up for temperatures diving below zero into double figures. I have only just realised this, to my great cost.
These old stone houses get sooooooooooo cold with no heating. When the sun is out, it's nearly always warmer outside at midday than in. This is a boon in summer but a disaster waiting to happen in winter. With no water and no heat, I was dependent on the generous largesse of friends, bliss for me but possibly a minor pain for them. They were all too polite to say so and, for that, I am grateful. I always try to be a good guest, bringing food and bottles of wine in, offering to cook dinner, keeping my room tidy and not hogging the bathroom or the computer. I have a mental checklist in my head of good and bad guests, born of years of shopping, cooking and cleaning for summer visitors. For once, I was a guest and totally spoilt. It's a life I could easily get used to. I had a glorious time and truly felt like I was on holiday, so thank you, dear friends.
I also took myself off to Toulouse for three days and two nights, courtesy of a great deal on Expedia for the quaint and lovely Albert 1er in Rue Rivals, close to the Capitole. Staying in a city is such a different experience from visiting for the day because, if you're like me, you try to walk everywhere. Suddenly, the signs from the 'peripherique' made sense and I didn't have to worry about finding a parking space. I was exceedingly lucky for the weather was gloriously sunny but cold, with a clarity in the air that only somewhere near the mountains can ever have. Even the stress of burst pipes and no heating paled in the glaring light. Whilst the grey skies of England had slowly been turning even the most optimistic of us unto winter depressives, Toulouse, even when bitterly cold, is a tonic for disheartened souls.
I was a woman with a mission. I wanted to find where the Quakers of Toulouse had been located during the 2nd World War and where Silvio Trentin's bookshop had been. I wanted to make a pilgrimage to the printing shop of the Lion brothers, where the resistance publications that had cost them their lives were printed. All were within walking distance, with the exception of the Musee de la Resistance and Deportation, which forced me to take my exercise for the day. I have long been fascinated with the Resistance in Toulouse, led by great intellectuals like Georges Friedmann and Jean Cassou, as well as with the bravery of the ordinary men and women who refused to acquiesce to the Occupation. Toulouse, the second city of the resistance, like the whole of south-west France, was not liberated by the Allies. It was freed by the actions of its citizens, many of whom at the time were refugees from Spain and other parts of Europe.
The German army of occupation surrendered on 22nd August 1944 in Castlenau-Durban, not far from us. Their surrender was, however, tinged with sadness. Just a few days before they had brutalised the little town of Rimont, killing eleven of its inhabitants and burning the village to the ground. Very little survived but the church and a few buildings to the west. A local resident showed me the where the new building line met the pink stone of its past. Our little part of France is steeped in history, pre-historic, medieval and contemporary and we are very privileged to always have something new to search out.
Now that the heating and water are back on, I am able to sit down and write. Oh, bliss! There are few advantages to burst pipes, other than the incentive to high tail it off to interesting places. Next time, though, for the sake of my nerves, I shall plan my trip in advance.
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