Noises off

If you were to ask me what one of my favourite sounds were it would have to be this: the sound of someone else strimming our brambles.   Nicolas came by today to slog away in heavy protective clothing and a big strimmer and remove brambles from all the walls on the terraces below our houses.

He then did the entire quince bank: I had missed bits owing to the steepness of the slope and my propensity to follow gravity’s pull.   And then for an encore he went up to the entrance to the forest and took out brambles and spanish broom and generally laid waste to the weeds.

Was I languishing in a deck chair by the pool with a long drink and a Swedish crime novel? No, alas. It was back down to Valence in search of more chipboard, plugs for the chimneys, groceries and an attempt to get at the junk shop for the second time.   We were thwarted by the Tour de France.

Junk shop doesn’t actually describe these stores. In French they are depot vente. You sell things through them and the punters (when we can actually get there) can find bargains galore in antique furniture, furnishings and stuff.   The stuff we are looking for is a large table to live outdoors under the grape vines.   But no such luck today. Another day when I can face the drive down the valley for the umpteenth time this month.

Gardening? Well, er no. I painted ceilings this afternoon. One more coat and I’m done.

But I’ve already drawn up a stonking list for the morrow. Those potatoes are coming out of the ground and the lettuce and pak choy are going in.

And on that note I think it’s time for a cleansing ale and stalk down to the potager to pick dinner.