Lovage and lee(a)ks.
The trouble with space - I shouldn’t look at other peoples gardens… continuing my lack of green fingers battle, Oh and hello August?
Wow, the month of July flew by at the speed of light didn’t it! Barely left a trace in its wake and already we are ten days into sultry August. I have lost so many days!
The not so sultry month of August arrived with my much missed daughter in tow and with them both, a wave of unseasonably cold weather. Cold northerly winds have whistled up the valley for the first seven days carrying rain and a generally all round grey, autumnal mood. We have huddled in warm jumpers and wooly socks most evenings, shivering and grumbling because I stubbornly refuse to begin the battle with stove this early in the year. Spicy soups have been top of the menu all week to generate at least a little internal warmth and rather than our usual slow ambles, our walks have been brisk route marches, in shorts and t-shirts of course because, well, it is still summer isn’t it!
The cold weather leaves us no excuses however to sidestep a job that we have successfully ignored for the last two summers.
When we bought this dilapidated old farmhouse, the rather imposing barn that sits opposite, originally part of the property, was not included in the sale. We had to cajole the owner, in terrible French, to allow us to buy it and eventually, after much haggling because he could see we were not going to give up, we managed to agree on a price. Probably a rather over inflated price because in 2005 France was in the midst of a housing boom, albeit its last few months.
The downside to having bought this huge barn with its leaky roof and attached hangar is primarily the maintenance. The slate roof is enormous and was in a sorry state of disrepair, which is an epic task. To replace a slipped slate at the highest part isn’t a simple case of throwing up a ladder, it involves days work erecting scaffold, harnesses and mechanical lifts. And time, which there is never enough of. As a result of all of the above scaffolding has been erected and has become an almost permanent fixture, a fact that irks me immensely but as my dear husband quite rightly says, he hasn’t quite mastered the art of levitation despite his numerous years trying!
I digress…
Including the four caves under the house, as the French call their cellars, along with an aircraft hangar sized barn and yet another small building attached to it, we have storage space amounting in size to roughly four or five small, two up two down houses; the idea at the beginning of our French adventure was to turn the barn into apartments but we decided we preferred the isolation to the money, a foolish move on hindsight but…
Anyway, the trouble with having so much space is it has a tendency to fill up!
My husband says often one man’s rubbish is another man’s treasure, and sure, occasionally I would agree. However, knowing that we have the space to store just about anything and everything they find, both he and my son have turned this phrase into an obsession of nightmarish proportion, the size of which, after almost twenty years you can probably imagine.
For my minimalist daughter and I, when we heave open the huge and impossibly heavy chestnut doors to the barn, the feeling is much like stepping into a little slice of hell, it has been for years but neither our utter despair, or nagging is sufficient to halt their obsessional collecting. Inside is Erebus, it is that place of darkness arisen from chaos so far removed from the Aladdins cave of treasures the male members of my family see. It is a mountainous melange of broken tools, pieces of timber collected from various fields, people and hedgerows (the latter for wooden sculptures - if I never see one again it will be too soon) and the remnants of materials from client work long since terminated, wire fencing, dried up cement and lime, empty bags and tins, roof tiles of every variety imaginable, old bikes, brush cutters and mowers all liberally covered in layers and layers of dust. There are wooden crates of old shoe forms, left not by the previous owner but several before him, even the two giant wings from a wind generator given to us by a dear friend with every intention of also donating all other parts to complete the machine but they were stolen before he ever got the chance. Oh, and half an old wine press which we are still waiting delivery of working parts for. Not that we have enough vines to even contemplate filling even a hundredth of its capacity.
The cold weather leaves us no further excuses to avoid the momentous travail and without delay or discussion with the hoarders dressed in overalls and gloves, we begin… we are methodical and absolutely ruthless. There are many disputes, not all of which we win, as to the usefulness of so many broken items but after three days of clearing, sorting and sweeping, three trips to the local déchètterie and two very sore backs we close the giant doors and feel at least partially cleansed. Sadly the wine press and the damn wings still sit waiting for the day when either missing parts are located or Rosie and I win and they are carted away, probably by another collector of treasure back to another barn and another uncomprehending wife in despair.
But we feel like we are on a roll, so ignoring the pain the following morning, we muck out a cave or two as well, it doesn’t leave much time for relaxation nor the discovery of new and exciting walks which was our plan but so very worth it, we are floating on the sheer joy of accomplishing the near impossible task of lightening our lives!
We are triumphant warriors of dust, detritus and dross!
Every year there are many days when I just want to throw down my tools and give up my quest, if not for the perfect garden at least for one that I feel to be a testament of my love and hard labour — in fact last year, with a dry well and no rain in over five months causing the worst drought we’d known, I believe I did.
But this summer, I have been quietly surprised. After six consecutive years without, I have French beans — this is huge believe me — nobody who keeps a vegetable garden here does not have their stores filled with homegrown canned French beans, it is quite simply a crime… Also I’ve harvested peas and mange-tout, I haven’t bought a lettuce or radishes or spinach since March and against all the odds, due to finding a parasite that attacks all plants of the Allium family and takes five years to eradicate (this is only year four) I have healthy leeks. And, an even huger, hug myself with pride, achievement is that I have not killed the lovage, my go to for everything herb.
My faith has been instantly renewed, my fingers are green, it’s just everything else that’s inclement.
And then I make the fatal error of peering into my neighbours garden. Oh how foolish can a person be?
The Desiderata says,
If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain or bitter, for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
I find, after making the forbidden comparison, that in fact my garden is far from flourishing. Not more than three hundred meters away from my vegetable patch grow aubergines, tomatoes and peppers all glistening and ripe when all I have are tiny bullet like balls of tasteless fruits. In fact my neighbours garden produces so much of everything mine doesn’t, that I need not bother anyway because every week during the summer months there is a basket of fresh gleamingly beautiful, veggies waiting outside my door. I am eternally appreciative of their kindness but can’t deny my shame at not being able to return the basket with a little note saying thank you so much but my garden is amazing this year! Especially when I truly believed I was winning!
And of course, I am too proud — make that too stupid perhaps — to ask how they manage to produce such abundant crops of every fruit and vegetable imaginable in the same soil, on the same side of the hill as my own when invariably mine struggle. I am also ashamed to admit, I have even spied on them, just to garner the vaguest hint of their secret(s). In vain, so it turns out…
I think of my dear papa and his so green that they sparkled from the tips green fingers and I cannot rid myself of the idea that he is watching my every move down here on my little plot of arid earth in absolute horror. I can hear his tutting and see his eyes raised heavenward quite clearly.
This year has been more productive than last year though. I do at least have plants that are green and alive even if my tomatoes do refuse to turn red.
And I have lovage!
And mirabelle plums by the bowl full…
Just before I go I would like to recommend to you this beautiful publication from Natalie Eslick, I will be telling you more about this brilliant wild hearted lady in a future post but please do nip over by clicking below 🌿
Also I’ve been reading Hunter Burgtof’s The Magically Mundane which I love so much because it makes me feel that my chaos is so much more acceptable! Slow living isn’t always about speed, it is a mind set!
Bravo my Sweet Susie and Rosie! You've finally accomplished "mission impossible"! I know the feeling, to be rewarded with a blissful sense of lightness after a good clearing. Junk is the bane of a minimalist. I thoroughly enjoyed your stories, as always. Love n light!
I feel that I'm in very good company as the wife of a collector of things that might prove useful some day. Some days I wish we had more space so I would feel so cramped and crowded, but reading this, I'm grateful that it is a small space so that there can't be more!! Love your stories! My grand-daughter's name is Rosie.