Putting down roots again

…in more ways than one. We spent a very enjoyable few days, first with DH’s mother and then with DS and his family 

Father and son and the dog that tried to drink the river dry

and finally boarded the ferry on Monday afternoon in brilliant sunshine. After a crossing as calm as the proverbial millpond and a slow and stately journey up hill and down dale (the van was very heavily laden this time) we finally arrived not long before midnight.

Brushing aside the cobwebs (the spiders really have been busy over the winter) we fell into bed and woke up next morning to another warm,  sunny day, perfect for starting to clean the house and empty the van. While DH hoovered up cobwebs, I started to unpack bags and boxes and try to remember where I’d stored their contents in previous summers.

This familiar routine was rudely interrupted when I switched on the bread machine to make some fresh bread, whereupon there was a loud crackle and sparks flew out from round the base, together with a strong smell of burning! I hadn't any choice but to turn all the ingredients into a mixing bowl and by following the instructions on the back of the flour packet I managed to produced a very authentic-looking and really tasty boule – a traditional round French loaf. I even got the crust crisp by doing the ‘tin with water on the floor of the oven’ trick. I can see making bread by hand becoming a regular occupation.

Back we went to work, only to be interrupted again, very pleasantly this time, by the arrival of an old friend with a welcome present of eggs fresh from their hens, which of course gave us a wonderful excuse to sit down for a coffee and a good long chat.

The days since then have fallen into our customary settling-in pattern of cleaning and sorting out the house and beginning to tackle the garden. The travelling pelargoniums are safely settled in their pots and my little flower border has survived the winter remarkably well. Once I’ve had time to tidy it thoroughly and the new plants I brought with me have bedded in, it should look rather pretty. The grass is another matter.

Back in their familiar blue pots

As I've mentioned before, our so-called lawn is the remains of an old orchard, which is grazed all winter by our neighbour’s young stock and frequented by some of the most active moles I’ve had the misfortune to encounter. The combination of mole-hills and cowpats makes mowing an interesting experience at the best of times, but add to the mix the results of one of the wettest winters on record and mowing the grass may turn into an endurance sport.

The very small campervan up to its hocks in grass

As the cattle milled around on the saturated grass trying to find shelter from the endless rain and wind, their hooves must have sunk into the ground over and over again, each time compressing a neat little hollow, surrounded by a crater rim, both of which have now hardened in the last few weeks of sunshine to the consistency of concrete. It makes walking across the long grass feel like traversing a cobbled street and trying to mow starts to resemble pushing a heavy weight across corrugated iron. It’s a good thing French mowers are built for rough ground!

I hardly dare say this after the winter we've had, but what it really needs is a good long soaking to soften the topsoil so that I can level off the humps and bumps. Unfortunately all we've had so far is a couple of light showers, though this may change over the weekend, if the forecast is to be believed.

Still, it’s good to be back and to realise that my French is getting better year by year, so that I can chat to the newsagent and read the local paper without feeling the need to reach for a dictionary. It’s good to have been invited to lunch by friends we met in our first summer here and to watch the cherries gradually ripening and even to catch a glimpse of one of the cats in the distance. It’s good to be back.