Notes from my hill - July be kind!

An update - who stays, who goes, who arrives and finally I speak to my sheep man - or rather he shouts at me!

Calmer days… not quite in reach but so close!

Dawn on the first day of my holiday…could it be more filled with magic?

June was not the month I’d hoped for…

The nightingales disappeared earlier than usual this year, more than likely due to the unseasonably cool and damp weather and nights filled with their sweet songs are now noticeably absent. I have had little time due end of school year madness, or inclination to wander my hill and have lost track of the hare population which bothers me immensely. The only obvious presence are wild boar who leave their droppings in inconvenient holes along the forest tracks for me to step in and the mournful song of the ever latent golden oriels which I see only as a brief, golden flash between the trees.

Although somewhere in France the past 30 days have been glorious and dry and sunny this is not the case here, I have checked my weather app so often and countless others just in case the farmers forecast was wrong — settled for the best, most promising but have been invariably disappointed.

July is looking more promising however…

I haven’t breathed out that sigh of relief yet despite the first two days of summer holidays being in the 30’s but I notice the grass and meadows have visibly decreased the speed at which they were growing over the last few days, the calm and slowness of this halcyon season feels more present. But, still, the weeds I battle with most, those that fight me back and usually win, are still in their element! Brambles, thistles, nettles, goose grass and dog wood, all are giving me cause to fill the air on the hill with constant expletives… especially the brambles, they grow so fast. And please, Mother Nature free me of your thistles! I am defeated by their woody and fibrous stems so often I have to take an axe to cut them down - I hate thistles, I really do!

I am not alone though, such inclement weather has caused chaos elsewhere too, the farmers cut their meadows and their crops but have had to work late into the night to beat the storms that rolled in across the undulations so regularly. My hill, usually so peaceful has sounded like a motorway. For days and nights on end it has been swarming with contract workers with multiple machines, spinners, grain bins, combined harvesters and bailers all with the brightest spot lights and engines that sound like tanks — there is little wonder I have insomnia!

Spying…

My sheep shearing man, who I try not to call on a daily basis, tells me time and again in language liberally spattered with ‘gros mots’ that he’ll be here soon, he hasn’t finished haymaking. Meanwhile my poor little flock are now sweltering in their fleeces. They spend their days wandering listlessly from tree to tree, corner to corner, moving with the hour of the sun in search of shade, their only solace is a bountiful crop of Prunes de St Jean (I think these are called Laxton Plums elsewhere) which bit by bit have all blown to the ground in the storms.

The remains after sheep feasts!

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Unbelievably our guests, an old friend and his daughter, arrive from Ireland with their fair skin and factor 50 suncream, on the hottest day of the year so far! Unaccustomed to such heat they are suffering and complaining. I try and fail terribly to be helpful with suggestions of standing in the coolness of the cave for a few minutes but they are scared of the bats and the spiders. Perhaps a walk to the river to bathe but the idea of the two kilometre walk to get there is insufferable. I even suggest popping some light clothes into a plastic bag and then freezing them for ten minutes but this too seems to be less than pleasing and eventually I escape to my garden to take out my frustrations on the hops. They have grown so frantically and wildly into the peach trees this year that not only are there no peaches at all but now I risk losing my crop of tomatoes because the hop leaves have formed such a sold and impenetrable barrier that the light is blocked completely.

Before I even begin I stub my toe on the saw blade (foolishly left in the grass) and am stung twice by a wood wasp intent on burying its poison as deep as possible and with as much aggression as possible into the back of my calf and my knee. I trudge utterly defeated, by everything and everyone, back to the house and make lunch. Within the hour my calf and knee are swollen to twice their usual size.

I call my sheep man again, he doesn’t reply — I leave a message which sounds way too much like I’m begging but I don’t care…

The afternoon is hot and humid - reminding me of the day I arrived in Bangkok having left the UK in November fog and descending from the plane onto the runway in 93% humidity - I literally thought I might die. My wilted and now completely immobile guests, I guess, are feeling similar; they cower indoors with their glistening faces and their T-shirts sticking to their bodies unattractively, glued to their mobile phones for the rest of the day. Despite my plying them with ice cold drinks of homemade elderflower cordial, usually so refreshing, they refuse to be consoled.

I am not defeated though!

Good food and a rest is all that’s needed… and cake! Everyone loves cake!

I hobble down to the meadow, white sheet in hand just in case I have to fight off Rambeau — I don’t, he is too hot to take any notice of me — manage to rescue just enough plums for what I have in mind and hobble back up again and begin immediately. My plum and ginger cake has never failed to please!

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I make a lasagna, from scratch, nothing preprepared or shop bought, innocuous enough to please even the fussiest of teenagers right? They hate it, don’t touch the freshly cut lettuce, cucumber and mixed herb salad with walnut oil dressing and just push my precious plum cake around the plate eating very little — I couldn’t feel less like a domestic goddess if I tried…. I make my excuses and leave to hide in my room where I gaze at the stars with teary eyes, tell myself not to be so stupid and lose myself in the wonderfully written Goshawk Summer by James Aldred while I wait for slumber to carry me to oblivion.

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A grey and much cooler day greets me after a storm in the night, thankfully not the promised violence forecast. Our guests appear with smiles on their faces and asking what the plans are for the day. I try not to show my relief at their visible change in attitudes although am at a loss as to know quite how to entertain them. I feel the ‘hostess with the mostest’ medal slip from my grasp entirely — not that it was ever really even a vague possibility! I have errands to run in town, packages to collect and shopping to do to cater for unexpected difficult tastes — think junk food (shock/horror emoji) — plus I must check on a friends property (a holiday home) for mail and storm damage. I suggest they accompany me, at the very least it will be a change of scenery!

While waiting in the queue to pay for a trolley filled with ‘food’ I have never seen before let alone tried to eat and wondering quite how these people are still healthy, my sheep shearer calls my mobile phone. He is shouting at me over the sounds of a tractor but I manage to decipher, between the background noise, his thick accent and the usual barrage of unnecessary french expletives that he will arrive on Friday morning. I am surprised because Friday is Bastille day and as such a national holiday, usually a sacred day of rest. I try to confirm but he is gone…

But yes!! At last… my sheep will have some relief, I hope!

We leave the supermarket loaded with bags of frozen unidentifiable food, more biscuits than I’ve bought ever and a six pack of a well known horribly sweet fizzy drink. I drive us and the shopping straight over to my friends house where absolutely nothing is as it should be… the roof has sprung a leak, and has left stains on the ceiling, the walls and the floor of the piano room and worse, someone has broken in — again! I know well what this involves and reluctantly call the gendarmerie. I am asked all the same questions as I was for the last break in even though my name pops up on their screens, am told not to touch anything, again just as the last time and that they would be there soon.

An hour and a half later, we are still waiting!

Just like last time…

I am cursing inside and pacing, inwardly furious at such a waste of a day, apologising constantly. Unnecessarily as it turns out because my guests are loving the drama.

I am praying they enjoy the mayhem that will be the rounding up of eight wily sheep later just as much!