I seem to have a new profession – shelling peas. Such a greedy activity; eat one pod one. Today was eventful in that I harvested my major crop of peas. And they have all been shelled, blanched and bagged and put in the freezer to eat over the next few weeks.  It took ages crawling among the messy peas; their tendrils reaching beyond their allotted rows, and weeds growing like mad in between. Reminder for next year; plant them further apart and plant more. We had some last night with mint and they were divine. Almost too sweet.

One other discovery I made, apart from the difficulty of planting the rows too close together, is that the reason you blanch the peas in boiling water for a minute is not just to lock in the sweetness. It’s to kill the little grubs. Every twenty or so peas there would be one with some little white grubs, cross and crawly at being disturbed. I’m sure everyone who has gobbled peas raw has had a few of them; but as my family would say – it’s only protein.

As I didn’t plant the peas in the black weed-proof fabric, it has been a haven for bindweed and other meaty weeds too. And I have neglected their care. Too easy to snap off a pea on your way past to worthier tasks than to get down on your hands and knees and creep between the rows to tidy up. But today I knew I had to get up as many of the crop as possible as I would be away for almost two weeks. So it was don the kneelers, drag the bucket and work down the rows. And I must say it is so much fun – you go up a row, diligently plucking peas, and believe you have cropped the lot. Then your hand brushes a plant and you find yourself touching a batch of yet more plump peas. Perhaps I really should plant the purple ones next year for easy detection.

The day was a sociable one. Sotaris was there. He has dismantled the shed (evidence of huge rubbish heap on the plot – galvanized iron, wood, window frames, all in a jumble) and built the foundations for a new one. Luckily its dimensions are modest. To the relief of all our neighbours. He had rather built up a grand picture of a shed, a lawn, deck chairs and a barbeque. That all may still happen, but at least the new shed will not encroach on our Vietnamese neighbours. Sotaris does tend to talk to me when I am more than fifty feet away tying in tomatoes or sorting out the artichoke seedlings, and I have to strain to hear what he is asking. But apart from that he is friendly. If full of advice. 

Mick came up to see my progress. I suspect he is a bit miffed that Sotaris (the new old kid on the block) is around, and like an old rooster in the hen house, he is determined to elicit loyalty from his little hens. Actually I think I am his only hen. The rest of the allotment seems to get on well without him; but he does have great conversations with his neighbour Mick, and the committee members. And I have valued his advice over the past two years.

Rino was his tanned and busy self. For a man who starts work each day at 3am he is always very cheerful around lunchtime. He fades soon afterwards. But not before telling me that his pea crop was a disaster and the slugs got to his potatoes. My pea crop would have been a disaster too if I didn’t keep topping up with root trainer-grown replacements all through the month of March and occasional ring-ins from Homebase.

Alas I didn’t have time to chat with Oswaldo. He hailed me just as I was dashing to the car. Sad that I didn’t have time to tarry – I needed to get to the paint shop in Camden before it shut - but I did want to tell him that the mint he gave me was a success. Anyone can grow mint I know; but it is so lush and bushy next to the rhubarb leaves. And once the rhubarb has gone over around now, it does leave a rather forlorn gap among the potatoes. So let it romp away I say. At least it is easy to pull out.

The main task of the day before the great 2007 pea harvest was to cut the grass. Strimming duty. My little petrol motor was put to good use as I did not only my paths (about an hour’s work) but Rino’s and the derelict plot on the way to the car park as well. An Italian friend of Rino’s has taken over the plot that really is a blight on the landscape between Mick’s manicured lawn and my own almost neat one. But Rino did warn me that the Italian gentleman isn’t a very robust man, and probably will wait for winter before he starts. Waist high weeds and lots of bindweed. I could see that nobody was going to cut it. Inertia being the order of the day when it comes to other people’s plots. That and grumbling. So I decided to wade in and start.

Actually I just think of it as making up for my shocking neglect of paths last year. Mine, I recall, were in a similar state until we hired a huge industrial strimmer and spent a day beating back the weeds. So lots of accumulated brownie points for a few hours work. No blisters, but an aching back.

Other delights (once I stopped sneezing after disturbing and distributing all that grass seed and pollen) was to tie in the roses that are growing by the shed. These are my ones that came from the roof terrace in Primrose Hill. Madame Alfred Carrière. Chosen after much perusal and agonising from the David Austin Rose catalogue a few years back. (I’m perusing again for the new garden in France.) They are putting on plenty of growth, and may even produce flowers once the verticals reach the roof and start to become horizontals. No sign of any lilies yet. I seem to recall they are August croppers (when we are away) but at least there are no lily beetles on them right now. Four pots of tall growth, I just have to hope the rain keeps up in the next two weeks or they will get parched. Similar wishes for the artichoke seedlings and Australian plants. I have asked Sotaris to take a look at them while I’m away (he volunteered) but I just don’t know if he will.

The first tomato of the year has appeared on one of the cordons. A small cherry tomato of the yellowish blush. I’m afraid I didn’t take it home to proudly show off and mark up as a milestone in the allotment gardening calendar. I just stuck it in my mouth and chomped down with a swift chew. Delicious.

The lemon verbena shrub doesn’t seem to loathe its new position. It is putting on enough bushy growth to enable me to pluck a bunch of leaves each time I shut up the door for the last time each day. They dry in no time, and go straight into their tea infusion bags at home.

I was actually a bit reluctant to leave. I had tidied the interior of the shed (rain squall just after the pea picking) and the crops are all at that interesting and fruitful stage. It could be neater. There could be less weeds on the path. But it isn’t at all bad. And as I also harvested my body weight in Charlottes and red Duke of York potatoes you could call it a success.

My first flowers came home in a bucket this afternoon – sweet peas and antirrhinums; the perfume of the sweet pea is wafting as I type. Not bad for June. And I must say that I wasn’t even dreading the return to the plot after so long away.  I was more looking forward to harvesting potatoes and peas and trying not to fuss about what I cannot do. And actually it’s not as bad as I feared. Some things are romping, some have endured slug chomping, but all in all it’s a rather productive little garden.

Sotaris was sitting on a bag of sand at the entrance when I came in. Those of us with isolated plots have to endure deliveries at the entrance and then bring everything in with a wheelbarrow. And it’s no fun at all. (She says trying to explain why she isn’t manuring her crop every autumn with a huge load of horse manure from an outlying farm.)

Sotaris has Great Plans for a new shed and a new greenhouse. If you were feeling negative you would say he was muscling in. My Vietnamese neighbour on the other side of Sotaris’s plot was looking worried when he described how big his shed was going to be.  And the greenhouse will gobble up the space between my shed and his. But frankly, I don’t mind. He is energetic and a bit bossy and will be a valuable neighbour for as long as I hold the plot.  I have no idea how long that will be. One part of me thinks I can still just do potatoes, broad beans and peas.  Harvest everything rather early, and then move on to the French garden. We shall see.

It was rather windy, so the first task was to tie in the tomatoes. They have survived their frost damage and are all putting on rather good growth. Each one needed tying in and tidying up. This part of the plot is also where I put in the herbs. The marjoram and parsley are fine. The rocket has bolted (no surprise there) and the basil is sulking but may yet take a turn for the better.

This is also where I planted the artichokes. And they have endured a slug battering while I was away. Even with slug pellets. I think I’m missing a few. (Which is about as technical as you can get when you don’t keep meticulous planting charts.)  Mind you so many weeds have grown up in the planting holes that I can’t quite see where things are.  I need to have a good weeding session on Friday just to get things back in order. Brambles are peeping up through the gaps in the weed suppressing fabric as well. Oh naïve and distant season when I thought these might be pretty roses inherited from the previous tenants.  Now I know they are pernicious and have no artistic merit whatsoever.

Once the tomatoes were tied in it was time to haul out my father-in-law’s potato breeder Hessian sack and get on with harvesting. On the menu today - peas and broad beans and a few rows of potatoes.  One learns with experience to pull down when picking off the heavy broad bean pods. You can yank out an entire plant in your zeal to get at a juicy pod low down. And greed does come into it. I just love the flavour of these young broad beans. But you have to wait to cook them before you can gobble them. Not so the peas. Talk about a luscious lunch. I ate more than was decently accepted – never invite me to pick your own farms. I would scoff more than I put in the basket. But as these are the fruit of my own labour, I felt no compulsion to slow down. But plenty went into the bag. And I even managed a few French beans from the bean pole. This is definitely a crop to avoid next year. Too many of them come to ripeness (fruition?) in August when we are away. And the effort in coaxing them to life, making the bean pole, squishing the black fly and stopping the slugs from eating them far outweighs their delight. But the sweet peas I planted between the beans are cropping. The honey scent of a sweet pea can’t be missed. And I tied them in more securely as they are straying from their supports.

Next it was on to my largest crop; the spuds. And it is now truly a race against the slugs. They are crawling all over the area. And why not? Lush growth, lots of rain, plenty of places to hide. I dug up two rows of tubers, one row of Maris Pipers and one of red Duke of York. And found at least three slugs in and around the soil for every single plant. But the yield from just these two rows was one bucket full of lovely potatoes. I brought the heavy bucket home and dumped a huge amount of water over the top. Cleanliness? No I knew there were some slugs lurking there and wanted them to rise to the top before I plunged my hands in and groped amongst the clay and spuds. Two came up and were sent to the bin.

I cooked the now slug-free potatoes later in the evening, and they were so soft that the first batch over -cooked in just ten minutes. The red Dukes of York did well in the lentil and lamb salad. But they really are better roasted. Then they taste as though you have slathered them in butter and are fluffy beyond belief. I can’t wait to see if the Charlottes have survived the slug fest.

Other discoveries; the little plants of strawberries are ripening and haven’t been devoured. And I have lots of flower buds in my ‘cutting garden’ poised to open.

Back on the TGV heading towards Lille and London; it’s warm (31 Celsius down here in the Drôme and about 26 up in the Ardèche). So much has happened in the past ten days – the first ten days of home ownership that it is difficult to know where to start; perhaps with this morning and then work backwards. We will have to get into the routine of closing the house. Vacuuming up all the dead flies on the tiles (rather lengthy application of the fly spray last night), clean the kitchen in preparation for our handyman Bernard’s destruction of the existing chimney, cover all surfaces with cloths and newspaper. Turn off all the electricity in the guesthouse. Unplug the telephone (more later), go down to the basement and empty the bucket of water under the boiler and unplug the summer hot water service.  Then all the garbage gets loaded into the car for the trip down to the rubbish bins. Not many people have to drive for five minutes down the winding hill to recycle and dispose of rubbish – well not those who pay a good whack of council tax. But there is no local garbage collection in our area, and it will just become another chore to add to the happy list.   Actually it’s fun to go pootering down the valley not worrying about meeting too many other cars. The whole way down is about fifteen minutes drive and the locals roar up and down so confidently that you do find yourself lurching into the verge as they approach. It is in theory a two lane road, but most people would class it as a one way street.  

Then back up for a final check of the list (forgot to add ‘unplug the fridge’ to the list and consequently forgot to do it. I had emptied it of perishables (but forgot a lemon), so it just needed unplugging. I texted Bernard to do it when next he visits. And bless him, he replied that he will turn off all the electricity and turn it back on, and the heating, the morning we arrive next visit.  Why all this unplugging? We are in prime thunder and lightning territory. And nearly everyone whom we have met this trip has happily reeled off the list of minor and major electrical appliances that have been zapped during a storm. Our neighbour Lynn described one afternoon when she was at a school football match when a thunder storm blew up. Without even waiting for the end of the game everyone scattered to drive back home and unplug their phones and TVs and computers. And naturally I have already had my first baptism. I left the telephones in their sockets merrily charging overnight. A storm blew up (I had been warned) but with all my heavy duty painting tasks that day I just fell into bed without remembering. Around four am I was awoken by a big bang. A mighty thunderclap overhead. Thought little of it and went back to sleep. Next thing I knew one of the poor little telephones was chirping lamentably in the living room trying to tell me that it was on its last legs.  The replacement phones were purchased very chastely a few days later and at great expense. Up on the plateau at Vernoux (our closest town) the prices are not very keen. You have to get into the habit of doing the large shopping at all the huge superstores down near the train station at

Valence. It’s almost an hour away by car and windy road, so there is not going to be a lot of spontaneous purchasing in this new French life.

  But before all the packing up I had another of my regular visitors: this time Nicolas the gardener. I can’t believe how quickly we have been able to organise people to help us out. So friendly and enthusiastic; we really are spoilt by the generosity of the Ardechoise. Well, actually I don’t think we have met many real locals yet: the previous owners of the house (the Reinhardts) are Swiss and Dutch, Nicolas is from near Dijon, Bernard our other neighbour is from another rural department; and Tony the beekeeper is from Paris who does our strimming; the builder Dario is originally from Luxembourg. And our closest neighbour M.Balayn is from Aix en

Provence. Many have been here for over twenty years; but it doesn’t seem to be an issue that we are all from somewhere else. The fact that we have chosen to live in this lovely part of

France seems to be enough for all.  Nicolas helped the Reinhardts with the garden; and he is happy to take on more work. He lives at the Chateau just up the hill and is employed by Laurent and Corinne to turn their huge place into a thriving garden and farm. But he will have time to help us too. Four square hundred metres of vegetable garden is his latest project. I can’t imagine how much work that must be (we are going to visit him next month). And he is very excited about getting Marsanoux back into good order. It does have an air of neglect at the moment. But with the good rainfall and well drained but rich soil, it is no surprise. Just having Tony strim all the grass has made a huge difference. You can almost see a lawn on one of the terraces right now.   So with Nicolas I spent a happy few hours walking around the property and discussing plans. He is already full of ideas – and good advice. My great plans to flatten all the terracing has met with some wise advice; the vegetable gardens are better as little terraced plots instead of risking all the soil being deposited on the terrace below. As I have seen this week – we do have great storms with huge amounts of rain falling in a short time. So I will rethink my radical plans and discuss with David how we will proceed. Nicolas is a great tree planter (not very much a flower and pretty person) and told me all about the fruit trees that he has worked on around the area. The olives that M. Reinhardt has been growing produce a lot of fruit. And he has even eaten grenadines (I think pomegranates but I will have to check) nearby. Lots more fruit trees to plant. And he is happy to teach me how to prune them.  

He was amazed that our peach trees escaped the frost damage. There are four (or is it five) in front of the house, and they look in good shape. A bit crowded, but they haven’t been pruned for a few years. We stood by the groseille bush which I now know is called a Jostaberry (a cross between black currant and gooseberry) eating our way through the berries and looking over the future vegetable plot. Plenty of ideas. And as we have constant water from the spring for ten months of the year we can rig up a drip watering system to feed plants when we are not there.  The spring water supply is much bigger than first expected. I had thought it was only for the garden, but actually it supplies the entire house for ten months of the year. And it gushes out of the taps. Our water bills will be very low indeed – except of course when it comes to fill the swimming pool. Naturally this is going to (hopefully) occur at the end of July just when the water source slows down. But we have learned the rather archaic system of changing over the taps that supply the house. Large valves and levers that are attached to the pipes buried in a cistern up above the barn. It would be sporting in the dark or during heavy rain, so we will have to be prepared for the changeover in good time.   

One of the best things about Nicolas’s visit (apart from telling us that he will look after the vineyard) is that he identified the huge tree in the middle of the terraces below the house. It’s a white mulberry tree. Quite rare now and covered in small fruit. David and I must go down there in two weeks and see how the fruit tastes. The mulberry in the courtyard is bred for its leaves and not its fruit – useful for not leaving stains all over the property, and providing safe shade. But we did find some fruit on it when we had a close inspection today. I wanted to ask Nicolas’s advice about the damage it sustained earlier last week. Mme Reinhardt accidentally drove under its branches while she had things on her roof rack. And managed to catch one large branch rather firmly and wrench it. I didn’t dare tell her as she would have been mortified. But Nicolas will drop by later this week and add some mastic to seal the wound. Hopefully it hasn’t sustained any lasting damage.   I realised too that the beautiful shape of this mulberry and the wisteria are thanks to his judicious pruning. The wisteria is certainly something that needs careful attention. I have learned a lot from the one at my parent’s house in Sydney. It can easily cover their roof with so much verdant growth each year. The white wisteria we have really is spectacular, but if Nicolas can work on it each winter it won’t invade any more than it does. The Reinhardts have actually planted another wisteria at the front of the house; but it’s still a pup. And if David agrees I don’t think we will keep it. The façade of the house is so dramatic and pleasing, it doesn’t really need more uncontrollable growth all over it. So relieved that we now are going to have someone to help with the garden, I can also report that we now have a handyman as well. It was something Chris, our estate agent urged us to find. And Bernard fits the bill. He is our neighbour at Le Buisson riding school down the road. Actually he is a typical Vernoux dweller – escaped from somewhere else, still a hippy. And has a sideline in making rather chunky gold jewellery. But to supplement this precarious income he does building work.  And for years has helped up at Marsanoux. So when Madame Reinhardt invited him up to meet me I was thrilled. Finally we can have someone to help with those jobs we just don’t know how to do (add a hot tap system so we can plumb in the washing machine, remove the old trace of the chimney that is jutting into the kitchen, change all our electrical plugs, sort out the electricity in the main living room and kitchen.)  Tony, the beekeeper, we met through the other estate agent Yannick. And he too is keen to supplement his income. This is not the time of year to bee tending the hives apparently. So he has spent two full days with the strimmer working his way through the waist high weeds around the house and down the drive. 

With all these people to help – including Dario the builder who has promised to be able to build one of the bathrooms before Christmas – things will be so much better. Proper builders are in short supply. Dario rather warned us that there was a three year waiting list for building projects a while back. But now there seem to be a few more around. We will just have to be patient. He spent a long time working out the logistics of our projects. Two bathrooms, plus three skylights in the main house. Not big projects really, but they will make a huge difference to the interior of the house. The skylights in particular. It’s a very shady house right now. Thick walls and not a lot of windows or doors. But that will change when we get the locksmith to come up and unlock the main door into the living room. (M. Reinhardt has mislaid the key), and give us a quote to add windows where there are currently stable doors.  I had intended to go back last Friday – but the electricity meter had to be read, and the only day the EDF engineer would come was yesterday. Famous for their inefficiency and prevarication, I wasn’t quite prepared for the surly person who turned up. Everyone has been so helpful and full of good advice so far, I was taken aback when the engineer told me that according to the rules he ought to cut off the electricity right now and only turn it back on when we have been recorded in the system as the new owners. I managed (just) to avoid this rather drastic measure. But one gets the feeling the electricity management is going to be complicated. It already is with the massive number of volts the Reinhardts had in the house. Instead of 240v they had 360. That was because down the basement resided a monster electrical saw and a meat cutting machine for their home-killed lamb. Naturally neither of these activities feature high on our future agenda, so we want to go down to a tariff that only includes the domestic 240v. Another department, Madame, I can’t do that. Nor could he give us a quote for moving a very thick electricity wire that cuts diagonally across the property, nor could he advise to whom I should ask.  Still. He wasn’t there long, and went away with the meter read and all our financial details. So hopefully they won’t cut us off. But if they do, we are well prepared with candles and torches. 

So for these extra three days I decided to put a lot of paint onto the walls. White emulsion over everything. No more lurid green bedrooms, and cover up all the streaks and mess of the living room and kitchen. M. Reinhardt was a heavy smoker and the walls had taken on that tobacco hue - and odour. Up close when painting near the ceiling you could actually smell it.  We bought six litres when we did a huge shop down in Valence on the first day of moving in. But that was used that up by Saturday afternoon. So I ‘popped’ up to Vernoux to get more. (It’s a fifteen minute rural drive) No such luck. The only hardware store closes on Saturday afternoons at 3pm. And I arrived a few minutes late. There was no way I was going to slog down to the valley – so I just had to content myself with a day away from painting and get everything else in order. Office sorted, clothes all packed away and hung up. Climbing goods in the one spot, huge list of things to do written up and arranged. All the boxes of goods that don’t have a home right now (including dozens of boxes of heavy books) are in one room in the guesthouse. Out of sight out of mind. Actually they have been out of sight for six months now, so it felt like Christmas when we opened them again. It was great to be reunited with my favourite tea cups and teapot. And not one of them damaged in transit.  And on Saturday evening I attended my first Ardèche party. The nearest village, Chalencon, was having a two day festival. So I drove over to our English neighbours Lynn and Jeff’s and joined Lynn and the children in the fun. It was held in a square in the old town. Live jazz band, beer tent and lots of kids running around. And so refreshing to have our suspicions confirmed. This is serious hippy territory. A very New Age crowd. All ponytails, floaty skirts and grubby kids happily enjoying the party. The beer was quite cheap and the platters for the aperitif (nibbles) cost a euro and were astounding. Little pieces of terrine, cured hams, mini pizzas and wonderful olives. That was dinner. And I ate my way through about three plates. Lynn and Jeff’s children Estelle and Ed didn’t eat much of theirs and I happily hovered up their leftovers. Especially the terrine. Pork perhaps, but in this area it was probably wild boar. Delicious whatever the species. And Lynn introduced me to some of her friends. So the social circle is growing.  On Monday morning at the rather scary hour of 730am I presented myself at the Vernoux hardware store and spent a fortune on a large pot of emulsion paint. I could barely lift it out of the car. But it will do for all the rooms in both houses. And repainting over any of the areas that are going to be changed. Having such a huge cellar means all sorts of fun things can be stored down there. It is immaculately neat right now. The trick is going to be how to keep it that way. Sadly it’s just a little bit too low in the headroom for David to be there comfortably. But I can go there without banging my head on pipes, ceiling and spider webs. 

So after ten days I can happily say that the living room, entrance hall and kitchen are all painted and cleaned. (I had to scrub all the walls with a mystery product called Lessive St Marc first. It ii made of pine resin and took off the worst of the muck. And also found its way into all the cuts and scrapes on my hands from the box moving. Ouch) One wall of the office is white, and two walls of the second bedroom are done. Hopefully I can get those finished next month so we can both spend more time outside rather than up on chairs with rollers and small brushes trying to get into the fiddly corners. But what am I thinking? Actually I’m going to be painting for months to come. Because I have to do the ceilings. Every few feet on all the ceilings are dark brown (almost black) beams. Not treasures, they were put up in the 1970s when the major work was last done. And between these beams are pine boards. Painted brown and then varnished. Charming effect. But when the ceiling is only 2.3m high and that reduces with all these low beams you can imagine how gloomy it looks. I consulted many, many magazines and can see that people have no compunction about painting modern beams white if it is going to improve the illusion of space in low-ceilinged rooms. But we are  not going to be crazy and buy the paint here in

France. It costs a fortune. So in August when we bring our car over, we can cram it full of wood primer, undercoat and satinwood paint. And maybe pay Bernard to prepare the beams first with an initial sanding. Lynn and Jeff have promised to lend us good scaffolding platforms – so that will make the work easier – but I don’t look forward to all that work. Except the results will be wonderful and change the atmosphere entirely.

  When painting, I have the doors and windows open and stare wistfully out at the garden and the courtyard to see what more fun things await. Another Sunday (run out of paint day) chore was to tidy up the courtyard between the two houses. It’s a great space. With the huge mulberry tree and the vines and the solid stones of the houses. The ground is gravel and almost smothers the weeds; but not all. I sat down at the front door and worked my way around most of the courtyard removing those non-smothered weeds by hand (so satisfying) and then started on the hollyhocks near the guesthouse. They are more like triffids than flowers. Self-seeding everywhere and growing up to six feet high. I would like them (they do have lovely crimson and pink flowers) but you can’t have just one. I think I pulled up more than twenty big plants in the courtyard alone. And there are hundreds around the vegetable garden and among the fruit trees. I am waiting until Jeff and Lynn’s wedding next month (when I have promised them these huge flowers and even bigger vases to display them) and then they are all coming out. The hollyhocks are so omnipresent that they had completely hidden a rose bush from the courtyard that was struggling to find the light behind them. It’s a tea rose. Not a treasure. But at least now you can see it. And it sits next to another rather gaudy deep crimson rose bush that is well nourished from run off from the gutters above. It may be the first plant purchase: I’d love to plant about three or four more roses against the wall of the guesthouse. Better ones with a good perfume. They will then scent the area – good flower smells are decidedly lacking in our rather functional but beautiful farm.  And who knows, it might even disguise the rather earthy odour of the rabbit hutches in the barn about thirty feet at the end of the courtyard. And the flies that have collected there. Madame Reinhardt kept about twelve big hutches for her coterie of rabbits (what do you call a collection of rabbits? A breeding of rabbits? A rabble of rabbits?) And all week she and I managed to pull apart these huge concrete partitions and heave them into her van. She is very thoughtful in wanting to take them away, and now that Tony has dug out a rather invasive elderflower tree that was growing near the barn, we have discovered there are about fifteen more of these concrete blocks to go. It is going to be hard work for her alone, and she has promised to ask Bernard to come up to help her. But I fear for the mulberry tree getting another bashing. With pieces of reinforced concrete at that weight, you want to get the car as close as possible. 

In time the flies be less of a problem. Right now they are still feeding on the dirt floor of the barn. But hopefully they will die out and not return next year. But we are learning that this really was a farm. And that we have to take a more relaxed approach to insect life in all its forms.   It seems so long ago we were struggling with the logistics of the Monday move and the signing. We had the huge removal van parked up on the weekend down in the valley nearby. (Big trucks are banned from roads in France from Saturday night to Monday morning here so the drivers Colin and Graham had to position themselves as close as possible when they arrived Saturday afternoon) The drivers spent their time reading books and taking two bicycles for a ride. (They were destined for the next move and they very cleverly left them near the exit of one of the van partitions) Lovely men, with a very challenging job. They are on the road from England to Germany to France and

Spain every week and just dealing with the logistics let alone the distances is daunting. We had a picnic with them by the river on Sunday and I believe they really welcomed the company and our thoughtfulness. It was David’s idea, and an inspired one. We knew that the Monday would be a challenge. We had to hire a 20 cubic metre van from the hire company half an hour further up the road in

Valence, and there was to be much driving between the big lorry and the van and the house.  We left them once we hired the van (which was late being returned to the depot and threw us all into a tizz) and raced up the hill to Vernoux for the signing with the notaires, the Reinhardts and the estate agents.  Forewarned that it could be a fraught affair we munched on dried fruit and nuts and oatcake biscuits on the drive up to settle our rumbling tummies and then plunged into the estate agent office for the paperwork.  It actually only took an hour. But it was a rowdy hour – full of laughter and gesturing and cross table translations and clarifications. Poor M. Reinhardt is not fully functioning at that early hour (11am) and sadly didn’t really become reasonable until we had our celebratory drink. From then on his nerves were steady and he was only too delighted to dash off to the bank to deposit his hefty cheque. We sorted out all the issues of the boundaries and planning permissions for the pool. And even did our marriage contract paperwork so that we can now avoid inheritance tax. And be able to leave the house to which ever spouse survives. In the past (i.e. until January this year) once one partner dies, the next to inherit are the children, the parents and the siblings of the deceased. Widows and widowers never had a say in whether they could stay. It explains why so many of these large properties are parcelled up into so many little plots (one for each offspring, parent, cousin etc) and I suppose they had it that way so people couldn’t knock off their spouses so they could inherit the property. We now have a French marriage contract with special clauses to make inheritance easier, and it was done with only a minimal signing and initialling of each page and appendix. We must have signed our names at least a dozen times on the day. 

But it was a happy event. Chris our estate agent was delighted for us and treated us (with his other estate agent Yannick) to lunch at a nearby hostelry. Sadly we didn’t even have a ceremonial shaking of hands at the end. M. Reinhardt had dashed out for a fag and a snifter before the ink was dry and we followed him out to lunch.  Happy speeches all round, with lovely local sparkling wine. And then David, Chris, the Reinhardts and I drove down to our new house. We had a complicated handover that took a few days. The boiler, the water supply, the electricity, the pumps, all had to be explained and written down and taps and switches labelled.  The removalists had done their last trip and David and I didn’t even have time to hug each other with glee and open the champagne that Chris had sneakily supplied. Along with a book about the Ardèche and two bottles of local wine.  Instead, he started changing plugs and plumbing in our dishwasher while we raced down the hill to take the drivers back to their truck and return the van. We shopped in Vernoux for a hot plate to cook from, food, and lightbulbs. And didn’t get back until 7pm that night. But we celebrated in style. Barely leaving the wonderful terrace and marvelling at our amazing good fortune in making this part of France our home. David stayed a few days more (no more climbing alas, we only managed an afternoon on the Sunday at a nearby crag) instead we hauled furniture and started making it into a proper home. The sofas are in position and the dining table set up. I braved the narrow winding roads to drop him off at the station, and then spent the afternoon going up to Marsanoux and back to the station to memorise the route, and get the used portion of my train ticket that was needed to prolong my visit until after the weekend. We had bought semi-flexible train tickets so we can change them any time, for a small fee. At the time I thought it was in irksome waste of an afternoon (especially as I had painting to do) but now I know the complicated routes to get down and up and can even do all the roundabouts without worrying where on earth I am. The roads around

Valence are a real spaghetti junction as there are motorways, highways, A roads, B roads and lots of industry to wend around. But once through it, you hit the Ardèche side of the river and breathe a sigh of relief. The pace in the hills is definitely slower and much less complicated.  Only seven minutes left of battery power on my laptop. Time to stop this diary and attend to budgets and plans and notes and actually read a paper. Ten days without watching TV or reading papers, and I don’t imagine I’ve missed a thing.

 

On Monday we take possession of our new home, a 17 acre farm in the hills in the Ardèche. The process has taken six long months – but pleasurable ones as it has given us time to dream and plan and find ways to be inspired. I have taken out so many books on garden schemes and planting designs from the library you would think I was designing a garden for the Royal Horticultural Show at

Chelsea. But in fact I’m just trying to learn what on earth to do. It’s all very well planting vegetable crops at one’s allotment, but we are facing a huge plot of land with so many challenges that I don’t know where to start. 

Start with a strimmer. Or just pluck cherries from one of the 30 or so trees growing up beside the long driveway to the house and take one’s time. Whatever happens it will be an adventure, and the culmination of many years of yearning for a garden on one’s own. 

At last, a busy planting day when I can do all the last chores at the allotment. We are Ardèche-bound on the weekend and due to take possession of our new home and huge garden on Monday. So I had to get everything done today; I won’t be back for at least ten days, and the garden has to survive without any careful ministrations.

First job was to plant all those little huddled plants. No slug attack, and they seem to have survived the night well in their rather crushed surroundings. When I potted the artichokes up (Violetta di Chioggia  and Gros de Laon) I naturally had one label for all five on separate trays. And now they are all muddled about and who on earth knows which is which. I really must learn to be less careless with my labelling as it may throw up some rather inappropriate surprises. And in fact I was thinking that as I stood back from planting eight artichokes near the tomato bed. One of them looked suspiciously cabbage like. And if I had paid more attention to maths classes when young I would have realised that when one gets 10 artichoke plants one doesn’t end up with eleven little seedlings in eleven little holes.

Three artichokes are under the apple trees (well spaced) and the rest (plus rogue cabbage which will be attacked by cabbage moth, pigeon and slug as it is not under netting) are towards the top of the plot closer to the shed. They are such fast growing creatures, I am hoping they will put on growth without the need for nets. Ten days will prove me right or wrong. But I just don’t have any more nets to spare. Two nets went on the parsnip seedlings. They were frankly a bit too small to plant out in the place where the celeriacs used to be. But as it was a bonus they germinated at all, I’m going to risk it. And they have their little poison circles to try and evade a bit of the food chain.

Next to the parsnips (and also under nets) went seven salad plants that I sowed from a mixed pack of seeds. And two flower seedlings that have been mooching about in jiffy pots for long enough. I like my little flower garden in the middle of the plot. It is a bit regimented and orderly, but it looks set to produce a good crop of pretties. One of the flowers (a white antirrhinum) is already in flower and just waiting impatiently for another few to pop up so they can serve their duty in vases at home. The staking with pea netting about a foot from the ground seems to be working. It isn’t pretty, but it seems to deter the birds.

The sunflowers will do their sentry duty hiding the wheelie bins I hope. They are strong little growers in their pots and I planted out seven behind the bean poles. And just to complete my over-enthusiastic crop planting dreams – I even planted up three little cucumber plants in the very holes where their predecessors were massacred. They have gone in with a bit more protection. And I have about six more growing as seedlings on the roof terrace at home.

The sweet peas are finally growing. Very late this year compared to last when I actually sowed them early and got them going much faster. But they are putting on enough growth to warrant being tied in. The nasturtiums that I planted next to the celery plants are putting on lovely growth. I was sort of hoping to use them as a sacrifice crop for the blackfly; but they are so lush and pretty (a dark crimson flower) that I may end up putting in as much work saving them as I am doing with the broad beans.

A bit of watering of the climbing beans and cucumbers; and then it was time to sit down on an upturned clay pot and have my lunch. On the menu – last night’s salad of new potatoes, freshly picked broad beans, a few leaves of lettuce, olives and poached chicken. Bliss. The potatoes are so much creamier than the ones you buy. But I really can’t tell the difference between just picked broad beans and the ones I buy frozen all year round. The skins are a bit thinner perhaps. But you still have to slip the grey skins off if you want to be rewarded with that piercing green of the bean underneath.

I picked more beans and the first mangetout for freezing and removed the growing flowers from the spinach I transplanted from their inappropriate old growing position. The plants are growing way too well and keen to set seed. I don’t really know if it will be a viable crop, but they have served so well in the hungry gap in providing us with a meal of good but robust spinach leaves that I’m loathe to cut them right back and hope they grows again. The mint next to the spinach is safely settled and doesn’t seem to mind being transplanted from Oswaldo’s garden.
 
The sun was still blazing when I realised that there was nothing more to plant. I could be useful in the shed and actually do a bit of tidying away of the pots and such; but I will leave that for a downpour of rain when I have to lurk in there and wait for the shower to pass.

I think the allotment can be left for ten days. Things look rather lovely and I felt a pang when I realised that it is going to become the real Cinderella of land in my affections from now on. It can’t compete with France.

Back at home I blanched and then froze the broad beans and peas – my first excess crop in the freezer and realised that the garden has done the job I set out to achieve back last January when I took it on; it has become the food factory.

I had planned on a longer trip today – but events conspired to keep me away. House moving and French bank accounts, notaires and such. Luckily it was worth the trip as I have met my mystery neighbour who has diligently (and lets be frank, speedily) been turning over the soil next to my plot. His name is Sotaris (but you can call me Steve); a Greek Cypriot gentleman of wide girth and enthusiastic spadework. His wife has been an a few waiting lists (like me) so he was happy to get a plot, even if he thinks he has missed this year’s growing season.

It sounds like he is a methodical man. He wants to clear all the soil, turn it, lime it, and cover it this year. And get on with building sheds and all sorts of structures in preparation for the full growing season in 2008. It is hot work in the sun turning the soil so I admired his progress; he has dug over almost 70 feet. He didn’t stay long. He had been digging since 6am he proudly boasted. So I left him to his lunch and started up the plot for an inspection.

As I suspected: no more celeriac and no more pumpkin plants. The corn looks a bit battered, but is still extant.

I brought with me from home the little parsnip seedlings that have finally surprised me by germinating, plus the artichoke plants and a few cabbage plants that were slow to get growing but were romping away in their little pots.

You wouldn’t believe that we had three inches of rain on this garden last week. Today the plants still in pots look positively parched. I watered the little Australian seedlings, and threw buckets of water at the lilies. They are putting on good growth, and if the lily beetles don’t come back, they may even make it to the flower stage.

I planted out the few climbing beans that have been safely stored on the potting table behind the shed, and the five acanthus mollis plants that I bought from Sarah Raven’s mail order catalogue. The only real success among a poor lot of plants. The artichokes were in such a state they gave me ten more. And the replacements ones were positively moribund. I have potted them up in the absurd belief that they may revive. And I don’t even dare mention the state of the euphorbia oblongata seedlings. They were little more than pinkie finger high, floppy from being pot bound and deprived of light, and only three are even going to graduate into little pots. I stupidly thought I was buying plants. Her books are inspirational, and her ideas are fine, but her mail order is a disaster. Remind me not to be lured into spending good money on dreams again. )

I planted the climbing beans in the middle pole area. That was my main growing area last year, but I think it will be best to have two bean plots as I can spread the slug and snail risk around. Only four beans so far for eight poles. A bit poor, but we shall see if I brave planting any seeds directly into the soil.

I have planted the first row of potatoes in the bed quite close to the poles. So I decided to pull up the closest plant that risks overshadowing the early growth of the beans. And you know how it is: it’s like a treasure hunt. Just a peak you promise yourself at the soil under the plants to see how the potatoes are going, and you end up digging and digging and unearthing utter gems. The first row are Maris Pipers and of quite a chunky new potato size. I couldn’t resist having a go at the next plant in the row. Up it came and into my produce bag went the first good crop of the year. About 15 new potatoes, thin of skin and plump with last week’s watering and with some good London soil clinging to the outside.

The weeds have sprouted mightily around the new tomato and herb area. So I hauled out the hoe for its first season’s outing. Naturally I was far too rushed and almost decapitated the head of a lustily growing rocket plant (what was I thinking?), but the rest survived my enthusiastic work.

I hesitated briefly about the slug pellets - an innocuous white instead of the Danger Poison Blue ones, but there’s no getting around the fact I have Given In. I put them around the climbing beans and the flowers and would have put them around the newly planted artichokes if I hadn’t looked at my watch and stood aghast at the time. Almost 2pm. How did that happen? Sadly I had to place all the little artichokes in a huddle (a sort of cordon sanitaire) and pour a little slug pellet crystal wall around them. Wishing them luck I thought I should just have a look at the broad beans on my way home.

Bag in hand, mind on what is waiting at home; I felt around the base of one of my sturdy broad bean plants and found the long bean pods to be positively plump. Aha, new potatoes and broad beans on the same menu methinks. I pulled about 30. So much fun. This is the payoff for all that scrabbling about and weeding and digging and watering and sowing.