Will I go vegan in rural France?

I have been spending the last few weeks trying to understand how far down the path from vegetarianism to veganism I can go. So, as Kim at Charm City says, it's a period of transition, I'm just not sure if it can be 100% yet - that's what I intend to find out.

Aside from the fact that the vegan diet is very healthy - and being committed to veganism is appealing anyway from that point of view - the more I read about veganism, and how it is a choice to support the welfare of animals, the more my conscience will not settle.

Janet at the Gardener's Cottage (who has a lovely blog that I was very glad to come across) includes a quote from George Bernard Shaw on her site that reads: "Animals are my friends, and I don't eat my friends." I can't get that out of my head. I'm really inspired by the veganism concept - and vegans themselves - but as it really becomes a lifestyle I want to work out if I can handle that here in rural France.

Just as the questions I had during the build up to going vegetarian (such as can I enjoy a life without meat in south-west France?), I am now concerned about whether, in addition to no meat, I could be happy living here without dairy products - without cheese and milk. How strange that meat and cheese, food that France is renowned for - and food that I have loved all my life - is now the very food that I am cutting out of my diet. Why is this happening now? Why can’t I just carry on ignoring it like I clearly did for years? It must simply be to do with being closer to animals here - and being more aware of what happens to them.

At the bottom of our land, across the road, is our French neighbour’s chicken farm. He has up to 7,000 chickens at any one time. They arrive suddenly, spend a couple of months waddling around this dusty playground, getting bigger and having fun together. Then a huge lorry comes one afternoon containing hundreds of tiny cages and then they all disappear…we hear the squawks and the screams as they start their journey to the supermarket shelves.

Having become more aware of the treatment of dairy cows (which is touched upon in the ‘Meet Your Meat’ film in my last post) I just feel as though I owe it to the animal community to try. Even though some people say it would be ridiculous to live here and be vegan I want to test it out and see if I could make it work. And my mother is more convinced than ever that I am going to starve to death.

This choice would certainly be easier in London - it's more accepted, there's greater availability of vegan products and eating out options would increase - so how ironic that had I still been in London that this change would not have occurred. In my previous life rushing around to lunch meetings, drinks and dinners I feel this unrest would surely not have evolved until a future time, if at all. It was busy in the city and I didn't feel as though I had time stop and think about much more than what I was doing next. Now my life has slowed down I'm finding it easier to look at the world and focus on what I can do - and how I can change - to help it.

In terms of the practicalities of incorporating veganism into my life, we live on a very tight budget, so it is a question of balancing cost, conscience and compromises. For example, by needing to purchase tofu, soya and dairy-free products I’m relying more on the supermarket than I was before. And undoubtedly in France these products are more expensive (and groceries are already more pricey here than they are in the UK).

For example, although you can get soya milk it's more than double the price of the long life milk we would usually buy. Also, this doesn’t satisfy another aim of becoming less reliant on the supermarket (we had previously considered purchasing milk from a local dairy farm). So this is where the compromises come in. Kindness to animals and buying local are both important. However, for me, I think that greater reliance on the supermarket in order to become free from animal cruelty wins.

Any food items I don't need to obtain from the supermarket will be home grown, bought at the market or freeganed. I'm still planning on incorporating freeganism into my lifestyle (which will mean I'm helping to reduce waste) and I've been reading the excellent blog Garlic Breath for ideas as the writer (also based in the south of France) isn't vegan, but cooks an awful lot with vegetables and has freeganing off to a fine art!

Foraging for chestnuts, juniper berries and walnuts has offered us great munchie food over the last few weeks! In the future I also intend to reduce the amount of toiletries and cleaning products we purchase from the supermarket by making them naturally and for this I have been reading Julie in Australia's Towards Sustainability blog (this is is such an inspiring site - she has a great recipe for a natural oven cleaner that involves mixing salt and lemon juice!). But everything takes time and head space, so it's step by step!

To make the idea of going vegan sustainable I need to find a source of dairy-free products (dairy-free cheese and so on) as these aren't available in our local supermarkets - the most you get is soya and soya cream and tofu (actually I was impressed that you could get that!). This also needs to fit into my budget.

How going vegan will affect my life as whole - especially my social life - also requires consideration. This aspect became apparent to me at the weekend when old uni friends visited. Three out of the four of us were seeking vegetarian food on Saturday lunchtime and the options were pretty dismal. The only vegetarian restaurant, Marie Colline, was closed (I later found out it only opens Tuesday to Friday from 12pm to 2pm!) and after trying over five other places we realised that vegetarian options were very limited. In the end we settled on a four-cheese pizza, the other option being mozzarella and tomato. Obviously a vegan meal was non-existent.

It really wasn't much fun wandering disappointed from place to place and it was almost 1.15pm by the time we settled on anywhere (when it was then a rushed decision as that's very late to start eating here). I had actually started to panic that we wouldn't have our lovely post-market lunch and the non-veggie with us would be really frustrated! This did give me a hint of what a vegan social life would be like.

Granted I have much less of a social life here in France than in London, but being vegan would likely mean not going out for dinner ever again, both out in restaurants and to people's houses! I’m not sure I want that, even though we don’t even go out to dinner once a month and I cook most of the time, I still don't want that part of my/our life to die out completely - I still want to get invited round for dinner!

Anyhow, I'm going to have a trial period and see how I feel. I'm attempting to remove butter, milk and cheese from my diet and eggs that aren't from my own chickens. (I’m not going to stop eating those, our chickens have a great life and a forever home, so I can’t see what is wrong with eating their eggs!) I'm going to look into what else I should be avoiding, but this is a good start.

What I won’t know until I’m more into my test period is how much happier I will feel in myself for making this commitment. My spirit feels more energised as a result of going veggie, so this will be another element to factor in. Maybe that feeling will overcome the disappointing taste and I’ll find I can compromise. Maybe I’ll find vegan recipes delicious, discover excellent vegan food sources (the internet can solve any such problem, surely!) and I’ll wonder what I was so concerned about? Right?

At the moment I’m aiming to eat vegan 75% of the time. That way I can try out new foods, still accept dinner invitations, eat food out with friends and explore.

There are a few sites helping me on my way, including: http://manger.vegan.fr (shows vegan products available in France), www.vegansociety.com (the UK's vegan society), http://societe-vegan.blogspot.com (the blog of France's vegan society) and www.veganpeace.com (which is available in English and French).

I'm enthused that there is lots of help around when you start looking for it!

So, my mission is:
1) Find out more about vegan cooking and what vegans eat.
2) Discover sources of dairy-free food.
3) Start incorporating veganism into daily life to understand how life as a vegan would be in rural France.

The challenge has started - and I’ve got lots to report!

Food waste, vegetarianism, freeganism and new directions

I’ve got my head stuck in Tristram Stuart’s ‘Waste’. Everyone should read it. When I looked at the glossy pictures I couldn’t believe the huge fields covered in oranges - rejected oranges, dying, going to waste and the rejected tomatoes. He’s right, there is a global food scandal going on and one that I’d been ignorant of until I woke up this year.

I’m not even going to start spouting statistics here (okay, just a few in a moment), but what he speculates is going to waste - and what statistics from WRAP demonstrate (Waste & Resources Action Programme) - is not going to be close to the real figures because very few are released on the subject. It’s all kept very quiet.

So inspired by the book and by him, I read more and learned that he is a freegan. I’d never heard of this term before, but it’s an anti-consumerist lifestyle that basically involves foraging for food and surviving from other people’s waste. On finding some blogs and reading about freegan experiences, it’s really amazing what people find - and very disturbing to find out what is thrown away.

It seems there’s a wave of new freegans emerging in our economically depressed climate. People that might previously have turned their back on such a concept, a bit like I would have probably, are seeing that it makes sense. There are lots of blogs, websites and communities sharing locations of where fruit and veg is available (that otherwise might go to waste) such as urban edibles in the States. I really admire these people that I've come across and their commitment.

According to WRAP, in the UK alone there are 4.1 million tonnes of avoidable waste produced by households and the amount of meat thrown away each year amounts to 33 million chickens, 3 million pigs, 350,000 sheep and 100,000 cows.

Feel sick yet? I do. Especially when 854 million people worldwide are undernourished.

Facing up to it and accepting that I was part of this suffering and waste - by learning where meat comes from and what happens to it rather than ignoring it - made me vegetarian. But it’s not far enough. Is it going vegan? It’s heading freegan…. I’m on my journey, working out where to go next.

And instead of feeling oppressed by my discoveries and the pressure to change, I’m feeling personally liberated because I’m doing something about it. It feels good to be responsible and it makes so much sense.

I don’t dislike the taste of meat, I love it, but I don’t like it so much I want animals to suffer and be thrown away just because I want something ‘nice’ to eat on my plate. Now I think that’s disgusting. How could I have been so shallow? I wish I’d woken up before long before now. What a lot of waste.

I only have to watch this film to know I’m never going to want to eat meat ever again:

To tell the truth I’m a little shy about freeganism, it’s new and I’m easing my way in. But I am in love with the idea of my vegetable patch sustaining us and helping to reduce waste.

The other day, after the market, I spoke to a trader about a box containing goods that looked as though they were going to be thrown away. I spied carrot tops for the bunnies and some beef tomatoes underneath. I asked her if I could take the carrot tops for my rabbits. She was fine about it and asked if I wanted anything else from the box, so I asked if I could take the two tomatoes. 

Aren't they gorgeous!

It was such a buzz thinking that the tomatoes in our crumble that night would otherwise have gone to waste. Since then I bought Richard Mabey’s ‘Food for Free’ and I’m going to try eating local juniper berries and dandelion roots. Foraging for chestnuts at the weekend was really exciting too, we’ve eaten them every night this week after supper.

If you had asked me at the beginning of the year what my new year's resolutions were going to be, vegetarianism and a potentially vegan and freegan outlook would not even have figured, but they will for 2010.

What a difference a book makes!

The chestnut fair in Saint-Caprais

Yesterday was "Le Fête de la Châtaigne" in Saint-Caprais, the village's twentieth chestnut festival.

Despite the threat of rain it was exceedingly warm - although that might be more to do with the polo neck and fleece I decided to wear because it had looked cold. 

Meandering families with kids (and one pregnant daschund) deliberated over chestnut stalls and local produce. 

Donkeys, a fluttering parrot (at a rope-making attraction) and unusual breeds of chickens (which weren’t for sale, but there to advertise the Parc Animalier in Gramat) also took part in the festivities.

Halfway through the weather delivered on its promise and it bucketed down with rain, but undeterred we carried on with essential chestnut, saffron (80 cents per bulb or crom) and tomato purchasing. On reflection, though, we really did spend most of our time talking to the donkeys.

On the way home we motored along windy, damp lanes through a beautiful, dark, tall chestnut tree forest and paused by a grass verge to forage for fallen chestnuts. 

Next time I will go better prepared and take gloves because it’s spiky work picking up these treasures - but so worth it when you find three little nuts inside.

Last night we roasted chestnuts in the open fire before dinner, which filled the room with autumn. They were delicious - so much so that we decided to forget about making tea and just stuffed ourselves with chestnuts instead (while looking at pictures of the donkeys).

Farewell Auntie Anne

In October 2007 I wrote my very first blog post after speaking to my godfather about my godmother’s traumatic diagnosis. After battling with radiotherapy and chemotherapy they thought she had won the fight, only to discover earlier on this year it had returned and was more ferocious than ever. It was a huge blow. She couldn't face any further chemo so it was just a matter of time.

Even though she was hungry and thirsty, she was unable to eat or drink. It was effectively death by starvation and it was awful. They were both out of control: he couldn’t help her get better and she couldn’t help him deal with the prospect of losing her. She told me that was the worst thing about it. I asked him if he felt guilty eating around her. Yes, he did. That day we ate our lunch in the kitchen while she rested in the lounge. It was a stressful and emotional day, yet every day was like this for them. She was so strong and he so supportive, I don’t know how they managed to cope so well.

Perhaps when other people would be losing the plot, they decorated the house. This is so typical of how my godmother was. She was fiercely house proud and known for her high standards so she ensured that all the work was done before she died so he didn’t have to do it alone - and so that it was “right” no doubt.

When I visited towards the end of the summer my godfather recounted the problems they’d had with their curtain supplier. The final straw was when the curtain fitter waltzed across the lounge carpet in her stiletto-heeled boots, tried to attach the curtain to the wooden curtain rail, lost balance on the heels and broke the rail in half as she swung on it to stop herself falling. They kicked her out, fixed the curtain rail and hung the curtain themselves. I was amazed at how they could recount this and make me laugh in the middle of all the adversity they faced.

She was tough, independent and quick-witted, but when I saw her last she was frustrated, frail and had dropped over six dress sizes. It’s one of the saddest things I have ever seen and I knew when I hugged and kissed her goodbye that day it was the last time I would see her. She knew it too and it has been my hardest goodbye to date.

Unfortunately my godparents’ journey together ended a couple of weeks ago. I had sent some flowers and a card saying sorry things were so hard and that I was thinking of her, which, I believe, arrived the day she died - typical me, I hope it didn’t seem too inappropriate.

My devastated and exhausted godfather held it together really well at the funeral as he spoke of his 50-year marriage with his “soul mate” and how this was just a “farewell” and not “goodbye”. He’d see her again he said.

Afterwards, at their house, I could hardly believe that we (the 60 people that went back after the funeral, which was attended by over 100) were allowed to step on the carpets with shoes on. She would not have been happy about this at all!

Of course this delicate occasion had to end with a "typical me" moment. When I went to the loo just before we left, I locked the door behind me and the lock fell off so I got trapped in the toilet!

I did eventually free myself and I deposited the lock in my godfather's hand on saying goodbye - at least my brief trauma made him smile. Hopefully it made my godmother laugh and gave her a break from worrying about the mess on her carpet downstairs.

My godmother had organised the funeral and these were the final words of the service:

You can shed tears that she is gone,
Or you can smile because she lived,
You can close your eyes and pray that she will come back,
Or you can open your eyes and see all that she has left.

Your heart can be empty because you can’t see her
Or you can be full of the love that you shared,
You can turn your back on tomorrow and live yesterday,
Or you can be happy for tomorrow because of yesterday.

You can remember her and only that she is gone
Or you can cherish her memory and let it live on,
You can cry and close your mind, be empty and turn your back,
Or you can do what she would want: smile, open your eyes, love and go on.

Thank you Auntie Anne for the inspiration. You can now, at long last, rest in peace.

Love and stuff,

Fran xxx

Us in happier times.

The joy of horses on natural stimulating terrain

When we bought our property last year it came with ten hectares of parcelled land (some of this was by the house). What we didn’t know was exactly where the rest of the land was because what the estate agents told us didn’t quite match up to what the previous owners had described - and what vagueness they did non-enlighten us with bore no resemblance to the maps.

Initially we created a paddock paradise. This worked for a little while, but as the land slopes it became slippery as soon as it rained so it was unsustainable. 

Our kind neighbours also let the horses graze on various patches of their land. But we needed to find a long-term solution.

I thought we would have to pay out a lot of money (that we didn’t have) to a surveyor so we could find out exactly where the boundaries to our land are. But hub, using his engineering nouse, felt that he could work it out through exploring the land himself and then comparing Google Earth with the map. I wasn’t sure, but he undertook this project with great determination. I would even joke about him being very romantic (not) as he’d study the maps in bed before we went to sleep!

He knew that I’ve always wanted our horses to live as naturally as possible; a place where they can feel totally at liberty; somewhere they really like being, which makes them smile and lifts their spirits, where they use their brains; where they can shelter, forage for different herbs and grasses and self trim on hard and stony areas (barefoot hooves adapt to the terrain).

I wanted them to live safely, but where they were challenged, where the ground wasn’t just flat, but where inclines and slopes required navigation, where they could create their own tracks (rather than just ones us humans make) and use their brains, just like wild horses have to.

During the summer we discovered the boundaries for a piece of land that’s three to four hectares big and it met all those requirements. The excitement? Stratospheric. But how could we afford to fence it all? And how would I feel not having the horses right outside?

We invested in the rope and battery for the fencing, but I wasn’t sure how easy it would be to fix posts into the hard ground. Then hub had the idea of using the trees for posts. It worked! Free and the most secure posts you could get! We fenced off about one hectare so we could move them as soon as possible - the rest will be done in the next month or so.

I was concerned about putting them on this new terrain as they’ve only been on ‘obvious’ land before. Here they needed to figure out how to get up and down and around, they’d need to use their intelligence! I wanted to trust in their ability and for them to gain confidence in themselves through exploring a new and varied environment.

On Sunday we took the horses across to their new home. 

We’ve had massive downpours here and their field was getting slippery so it was just in time. I’ve stupidly lost my camera (and have desperately been searching for it), but we took pictures with our slightly disappointing camera phones, so they are not great, but at least I can illustrate this post.

When we took off their halters for the first time I half expected them to chase off excitedly and career around the land. And I was worried about this, but they didn’t. They were so, so calm and kept looking over at us as if to say: “Really? For us? Wow!” 

They just started to forage and graze and we all wandered together, spending a little time on the hard ground and making our way over to the woodland area. 

I really wanted them to see everything in the daylight first and be with them to share in their pleasure and ensure their wellbeing.

On Sunday at midnight I was worried about them and so we jumped in the Land Rover (you have to go off road to access the land in a vehicle) and checked on them by using flashlights. It was deep black all around and a little scary, not to mention quite hard to work out where we were - and where they were. But I knew we wouldn’t alarm them because they’re quite used to me turning up in their field in the middle of the night during storms and such like just to make sure they are all right.

I miss not being able to see them when I look out of my window or go outside. But this is a very small price to pay because all of us are happier! I can feel their glee and sense their calm - it’s washing all over me and making me smile, even when I’m home and I can’t see them. 

They are exuding joy, are active, discovering new food, moseying across the rubble to quench their thirst while nibbling here and sniffing there and reaching to get the juiciest leaves on the tree. 

I’m sure they’re stretching in ways they never knew they could - Olga especially! Prepare for a hilarious picture of my big girl.

Thank you fabulous husband for making this possible for the horses!

Being a Vegetarian in France

Eating meat and being an animal lover has never sat easy with me (let alone the growing problem of food security, the increasing worldwide demand for meat and deforestation for animal feed). However, for many years I managed to keep these different aspects of my personality apart and not face up to what eating meat, but despising animal cruelty, actually meant. Being a bit of a foodie I just focused on the taste rather than engaging with where the food had actually come from.

Loved, loved this bunny home in Holland!

When I left behind a city-based childhood filled with rabbits, horse riding and a dog (for my tenth birthday – still, to date, the best birthday present I have ever received) for uni and single working life, having to rent flats where animals were forbidden meant that animal contact was minimal and the duality was even easier to ignore.

Me with Hector Stanley - nice look I had going on there - especially the hair!

The denial continued even when we got our first rabbit in the three-bed house that hub and I rented out during our last two years in London. We eventually had four bunnies (the landlord thought we had one…in the garage) and when we knew we were going to leave for France introduced Truman to our family (the owner definitely didn’t know about this!).

Charlie Babbit - the original rabbit!

The unrest with my two sides was growing, but even still, about a year before we moved to France we got married in a beautiful medieval village in Gascony, Castelnau des Fieumarcon, and there we had my favourite starter: ‘foie gras’ with plum sauce and sweet wine. The wedding meal was cooked by one of the best chefs in the area, Jean-Noel Prabonne who runs gastronomic restaurant Le Relais de la Hire in Francescas. Our main course was duck and it was cooked to perfection. Whenever I ate anywhere in France, as my family well know, it was hard to resist ‘foie gras’ followed by pink, melting ‘canard’.

Our wedding in Gascony was the best weekend of my life...but I feel bad about the 'foie gras'.

When we first rented in France I would buy as much ‘foie gras’ as I could, but it wasn’t long before the feeling grew more and the buying less frequent. I rescued a couple of horses (one was on his way to the meat man) and soon we had a family of horses, rabbits, dogs and chickens…I was getting so close to nature and animals (and poo!) that my eating habits were disturbing me more and more.

Then one of my friends, an obsessive animal lover and Blue Cross volunteer – who grew up in Africa and loved her meat – became vegetarian. She challenged me on my meat eating and this forced me to engage with myself.

This was a catalyst and I didn’t really like what I found. I started to think very seriously about how my actions didn’t reflect what I felt. No wonder I felt so uncomfortable without even realising exactly why. I could never hurt or kill an animal, but I was happy to buy it packaged in a supermarket? How hypocritical of me.

We had discussed the idea of rearing our own animals as part of our new way of life in the country – but I knew I would name them all and never be able to kill them. We had helped rear a baby lamb at the house we first rented in France and I had been so upset to find out he had ended up in a bucket in the fridge. So, how could I eat ‘foie gras’ and meat if I couldn’t bear an animal to be in pain or be forced to do anything it didn’t want to?

I started to become internally horrified at how blind I had been, wondering how I could have organised, conscience free, the huge, decadent meal at my wedding. My meat eating became less frequent, but I still wasn’t ready to be a pescetarian, or vegetarian. I had moved to France after all where ‘vegetarian’ is something of a dirty word. The French are so proud of their dedication to meat, even eating offal (which I’ve never been able to do) and horses. How could I live here and not eat meat! Wouldn’t that be such a shame?

And yet every time I saw bunnies in small cages and squashed chickens at markets I was appalled and wanted to bring them home. Not sustainable, of course, and I had moved to rural France after all, so it was something I was going to have to get used to.

The markets in France are wonderful convivial places - but not for animals!

Then, around Christmas time I rescued a cockerel, Lucky (named for obvious reasons), as described in a previous post, who was about to end up on someone’s plate. He lived on his own with us for a while until we could find some suitable hen friends for him. Knowing nothing about chickens I was surprised at how close we became. He allowed me to cuddle and stroke him, would usually come when called and would choose to wander inside and lay by the fire nearest to us. I actually caught this on film and it is a remarkable sight.

Lucky is clever, funny and completely endearing. He wasn’t ‘just’ a chicken like people said (and many laugh about the bond between us). He was an intelligent creature who understood an awful lot and felt as much pain as I did. I wouldn’t dream of eating him so how could I eat another ‘him’? So I stopped eating chicken and duck. It wasn’t long before I became pescetarian, testing myself to see if I could cope with the change.

I could more than handle it. I ate fish occasionally, mainly due to the fear of not being able to enjoy eating out in a local restaurant ever again. But after investigating more about fish farming, particularly the panga fish that was on offer regularly at our local supermarket, I ate less of it and launched myself into creative vegetable cooking.

What did I discover? That cooking with vegetables was really exciting. It worked with my plans for sustainable living and the future of our new vegetable garden. I found it much more interesting to make imaginative meals with vegetables rather than having meat as the focus. And I was happier!

When a male veggie friend visited us this summer, I realised that I wasn’t going to be eating fish any longer. He challenged me on how I could still think eating fish was ‘okay’ when I didn’t think it was right to kill other animals for their meat. I couldn’t justify it because I didn’t really think it was ‘okay’, so that was that.

So for over a month now I’ve been a veggie. I’m so pleased I want to tell everyone – but I’m sure our French neighbours would just scoff. Our meals have never been more delicious and I've discovered a new tomato addiction and the most delicious tomato crumble recipe. The dinners must be good because hub also announced he was going veggie. Shock horror! It’s actually totally liberating. Now I’m starting to worry about what cows go through to provide us with milk…but one thing at a time….

Being a veggie in France is much easier than I had thought. For lunch the other day at a restaurant in Cahors I asked for the goat’s cheese starter to be made into a main meal. That wasn’t a problem. And I’ve since discovered that the Marie Colline restaurant on Rue Georges-Clemenceau in Cahors is a vegetarian restaurant run by two sisters. Next time we’re out for lunch we can try their €14 two-course menu! Some of the useful sites I’ve found since going veggie in France are:

French Entrée – Trevor Bridge runs the veggie zone on this site, which has a wide range of information on where to eat, stay and what to drink if you’re a veggie in France.

Happy Cow – This guide offers listings of over 150 vegetarian restaurants in France.

Vegetarian and Vegan in France – Andrea and Bruce ‘Humpbuckle’ run a veggie B&B in the Limousin and have created a fun blog site that includes veggie recipes, places to stay and useful articles.

The Grumpy Vegan – Not specifically France related, but one of the best animal advocacy blogs I’ve come across, actually it’s probably the best, from legend Kim Stallwood.

My tomato addiction

Tomatoes. In my previous life I thought they were red and yellow and just available in round, plum, beef and cherry sizes. And I’ve always loved eating them. But recently I have discovered something new about tomatoes, and myself, after investigating tomato stalls at local markets over the last couple of months. That is that tomatoes come in all sizes and shapes, including pear, bell and heart, and in multi colours - and that I am in love with the look and preparation of them as much as their consumption.

I never knew I could be so excited about tomatoes. Friends who have visited recently laughed at this new obsession: picking the most colourful at a market (I feel like the little girl I used to be choosing my 10p pick and mix at the newsagents), arranging them in a fruit bowl (purely so I can admire their beauty) and then creating the most delicious tomato salad (with fresh basil and basil olive oil) to show off their shiny sunset flesh. Seeing the yellow drizzle into red, dark and light green stripy skins, deep purple cherries and glorious yellow tear drops - that taste as good as when you bite into a juicy, freshly-picked strawberry - is exhilarating. It’s curious to feel so much love for tomatoes, but seeing them arranged in a bowl is, to me, an almost incomparable vision.

Cahors market is the best place locally to source exciting tomatoes. How could I not have known about this world before? “I have a problem, I love your tomatoes too much” I told the lady at the market stall who sells the best tomatoes I have ever laid eyes on. She always smiles knowingly at me, she clearly unlocked her door to this world a long time ago and I can tell that she understands my delight. She handles her tomatoes so lovingly, with such great respect, and carefully wraps ‘barquettes’ and single beauties carefully in brown paper bags for me to take home.

Being pescetarian since the beginning of the summer and now vegetarian for about a month I’ve never been happier about my decision to leave meat behind and concentrate on growing vegetables and buying local produce. Having successfully grown plain old red tomatoes in the past, the irony is that this year my tomatoes just haven’t done very well, although some of my yellows, of which there are currently three that we could potentially eat soon, are ripening. I've also got a few 'ugly' (they're actually drop dead gorgeous!) orangey red ones almost ready for picking - oh the excitement! As for the rest, I'm not sure, I may have to indulge in some green tomato recipes. “The first year of a ‘jardin potager’ is always difficult!” my retired French neighbour told me once while offering buckets of her home-grown vegetables to us (a wonderful and regular occurrence), so plentiful that her and her husband just cannot eat them all. It’s true I suppose.

And while I study the progress of my beautiful yellow tomatoes, I’m planning the fat purple, stripy, multi-coloured varieties that I’m going to introduce to my vegetable patch next year - and, well, that is unbelievably exciting too! So, guess what? I can now also add ‘planning what tomatoes to grow’ to my (increasing) list of tomato-related addictions!

‘France and the Unknown: The Truth Behind Living the Dream in France’ – call for contributions

I am currently researching for a book that I’m writing. The working title is: ‘France and the Unknown: The Truth Behind Living the Dream in France’.

This is a call for contributions for real stories and real experiences from all the gorgeous people who live in France and have experienced the difficulties behind living the dream.

The reason for the book is because almost all of what I read in print doesn’t really tell you the truth about what life is really like in France for expats. For example, most guides will tell you how efficient French healthcare is – which, of course it is in the main and that is one aspect – but there’s nowhere that goes into detail about what aspects of your hospital visit might scare you half to death if you’re still getting to grips with the language and how best to deal with this situation.

There are plenty of ‘practical matters’ books and these are a very useful tools as you navigate your way through the French system, however, there is very little to help people understand what they are going to have to deal with emotionally in their new French life – especially if they’re leaving the rat race of the city for a new life in the French countryside as then they’ve got country living and French culture to get their heads around!

If you look around on the internet you can find stories that scratch the surface of what’s difficult for people - especially in the blogosphere and now that social media allows us to network and share information in a way we’ve never done before. But not everyone can use - or wants to use - Web 2.0 technology to communicate. I want to consolidate the experiences - put lots of emotional journeys in one place so people know where to find them when they need help - whether they're web savvy or not! I know that I would have appreciated being able to read a book like this before moving to France - particularly rural France - so that I could have prepared better mentally for what was to come.

For me I think the last twelve months have probably been the hardest that I’ve ever had in my life, the funny thing is that they’re also the best twelve months. I discovered a life I never thought I could have that’s more sustainable, peaceful and with animals, but the difficult times have been extreme and emotionally very testing. There have been times when I have felt very isolated and often confused about how to move things forward. And I know I’m not alone!

This book will help people who want to follow their hearts to France, to prepare mentally for their new life and it will support them when they are here. They will find experiences of real life that they can relate to and draw strength from. When times feel hard they can consult a similar experience in the book and not feel so alone. They will see that others had tough times too and got through it, which will provide inspiration and also support for surviving the situation.

There are always fun times and tough times wherever you are, but I have heard people say that the dream comes at a price. Do you think this is true? What have you had to learn to live with or compromise on in order to make life work for you here? What has been tough for you while you’ve assimilated to life in France? What do you wish you had known before moving to France that you could share with someone else to help them?

If you have an experience or experiences you would like to share and/or advice you think other people would find useful that can be related to a personal experience, then I would be very grateful if you could get in touch with your story. Please be reassured that all contributions will be confidential. You are welcome to send them in anonymously or with your name (the latter is preferable, but not essential). Pictures are also welcome. Please contact me at:  frances@franceandtheunknown.com. Thank you!

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France and the Unknown blogspot can also now be accessed through www.franceandtheunknown.com and www.franceandtheunknown.co.uk.

Bee-eating Asian hornet invasion in south-west France – allergy sufferers beware!

An invasion of bee-eating, Asian hornets is happening here in south-west France. Last week seven people from our neighbouring department, Lot-et-Garonne, were rushed to hospital after being pursued by hundreds of them and stung (which, is said to be like a hot nail piercing the skin!). Local authorities issued a warning to people with bee allergies to be “extremely cautious”.

A dead Asian hornet from Parempuyre, near Bordeaux.

Source: World Prout Assembly.

After ‘something’ stung our Labrador Truman on Monday afternoon I’m now only too aware of how an allergic reaction can quickly escalate. I don’t think, in this instance, he was attacked by one of these ‘vespa velutina’ (which can be identified by their yellow feet, shown above), but as a consequence of their invasion the European hornets that already live here have become more aggressive – because they’re hungry – so perhaps he was set upon by one of these? It's difficult to be certain what caused it.

I first noticed that Truman had been stung on his cheek on Monday afternoon. When I parted his clumped black hair I spied a small red circle surrounded by hard skin, which was a little wet - I thought this was caused by Little Ted’s licking obsession.

On Tuesday morning I couldn’t believe my eyes. The red dot was like ink on blotting paper and the hard area expanded so that it was visible beyond the edges of his big overhanging floppy ear. It was red, blotchy and weepy. His breathing was more laboured – he was definitely struggling as he usually doesn't make a fuss about anything (apart from the prospect of dinner) – and we had to stop him scratching it because that was making it worse.

Truman's allergic reaction, yesterday afternoon.

I phoned up the vets in Prayssac and was told we could just drop in, so we bolted our breakfast and raced to the vets in Jenson Button style. This hadn't been necessary as the waiting room was filled with barking and meowing so we knew we were in for a long wait. Fortunately the next two hours were very humorous.

The lady opposite us looked just how you would imagine an older Frenchwoman to be. She was trying to read a magazine, her grey Scottie dog - sporting an enormous plastic Elizabethan collar that extended past its nose - was testing her ability to concentrate by growling angrily at any other dog that dared to pass over the threshold into the vets. Usually this prompted a stern, French reprimand, but about half an hour later a particularly long growl by the Scottie caused her to whack the magazine flat on the end of the plastic cone, which was hastily followed by an apologetic pat. The waiting room erupted into giggles and a huge guffaw from an old Frenchman sitting nearby, who had decided long before that it was less hassle to leave his Beagle tied up outside.

The laughter was an eye-contacting ice breaker, I got chatting to a lady who had three-quarter-length trousers on over the top of her swimming costume - Sarkozy would have been pleased as it was like half a ‘burkini’. She had clearly got ready to go swimming that morning, looked at herself in the mirror and thought: “Merde!” For on her arms and chest were tiny brown rings: ringworm or ‘la teigne’!

She must’ve rushed to the vets straight away with the culprit: a teeny mewing little kitten, timidly backed into the end of her pink carry case. She smiled at Truman. He liked her and tried to say hello. She pretended to try and touch him from a distance, but shrugged her shoulders and pointed to the rings on her arm - she couldn’t as ringworm is extremely contagious. She explained that she had three Labrador cross breeds in her car all with ‘la teigne’. Apparently she had been out walking when the kitten followed her for five kilometres meowing. Eventually she gave in, scooped it up in her arms and brought it home - and soon after her entire family were infected with ringworm. What a nightmare!

A young and smiley vet eventually saw us. We pinned Truman down while his cheek was shaved, which he hated, and were told this was a bad allergic reaction to a sting. After removing his hair we could see it was hard, red and weeping - the centre of the sting, the circular blot, had grown even bigger. Truman was given a steroid injection and Cortavance spray (hydrocortisone) - and clear plastic E-collar, which looks like a loudspeaker, to prevent him scratching it.

Poor Truman. Not only is this very uncomfortable, but he’s not happy that from a certain angle he looks very much like a girl with a bonnet on.

Last night Truman slept in our room (instead of downstairs). His breathing was getting increasingly laboured and the vet didn’t know if the allergy would continue to spread or if the injection would be strong enough to stop the damage. So, I wanted be able to hear if he had any problems. I don’t think I missed a single noise and I’m glad the infection seems no worse this morning as I don’t think I can take another night of licking, snorting and snoring - he sounds like a big fat hog in mud.

The problem with not knowing exactly what insect caused this means I will probably panic every time a bug goes anywhere near Truman. What’s scary about the new Asian hornet invasion is that allergy sufferers will be particularly at risk because these colonies actually go on the attack. According to ‘The Telegraph’, hundreds attacked a woman and a baby last week! More disturbingly Yves Vedrenne, General Secretary of the National Union of Beekeepers, has admitted: "We don't have the means to get rid of them.” And not only that, it’s going to get worse until mid-September.

The beekeepers are concerned because just three or four hornets can wipe out a beehive in two days. Beekeeper Francoise Romanzin says there has been a rise in attacks and that they’ll be “everywhere” in France in “three or four years”. The bee population is decreasing anyway, if they diminish further our agricultural industry will suffer - we’ll have fewer crops due to lack of pollination - not a bad potential disaster rate for a bunch of insects that arrived in a shipment of pots from China.

If someone you know is stung and you suspect an allergic reaction you can dial 15 for the emergency services. If your animal is victim of an attack then get them to the vets as soon as possible - the damage spreads fast!

Two rabbits with head tilt cured by worming

Over the last two weeks I've been talking via the comments section of my blog to the owner of Roberto Broccollini, a little bunny who recently contracted head tilt. She's based on the opposite side of the world, in Australia, and was terribly worried. It is an experience that has reminded me of how incredibly powerful and wonderful the blogosphere is.

She must've been Googling about 'head tilt' when she came across my blog and a couple of posts I had written on how my bunny, Princess Sophie Strawcake, woke up with head tilt one morning. After a few posts I hadn't written an update, so she left a comment to find out how she was – she needed ideas to help Roberto Broccollini.

I knew exactly how Roberto's owner would be feeling. He, too, was eating (a great sign), but was very confused. I had been absolutely gutted and felt so lost at what to do. Not just for me, but for love of Sophie's life Charlie Babbit. I didn't think it was possible for any rabbit to be so miserable, but he was devastated (when I first bonded them it was love at first sight and they'd never left each other's side from that moment on).

Imagine my surprise when, for the first day ever, Sophie didn't start munching her morning cookie within a nano-second of grabbing it – and then my shock at seeing why. Her little fluffy head was stuck at 90 degrees to her left. She couldn't walk properly and, if she tried, she rolled and often couldn't get up again – she was utterly bewildered.

Sophie with head tilt - and a very vacant, flat-eared Charlie.

None of the treatment that the vets gave us worked. After burying myself in books and internet research, trying various different medicines and when they didn't work spending over US$200 on natural anti-toxic remedies from the States, I was almost ready to give up. She was still eating and not in any pain, maybe she'd just have to get used to a less mobile life? Her huge pen was too much for her to cope with, so she spent her days in a small indoor bunny house – we tried putting Charlie outside in the run, but he was too unhappy without her, so he also had to stay in this rather confined area.

After making contact with my parents' friend, a UK-based vet, I told him that we hadn't wormed her yet, but how I thought perhaps we should. This was one of the things the France-based vet told us we could do at the beginning, but then put her on other treatment – even though we mentioned that her nickname was 'Noddy Dog' and had discovered that a nodding head is a symptom of EC (Encephalitozoon Cuniculi). Worming with Panacur controls against this. My parents' vet friend told us that this was one of the first things we should have done. I ordered some Panacur right away. It is delivered in tiny syringes and you administer the amount according to their weight.

When I saw the teeny amount she swallowed each day, I wondered how it could really have any effect. But, sure enough, even after a few days we started to see the difference. After 28 days had passed she was zooming up and down her pen outside like a little rocket. She must've had dormant EC all along and now she's more healthy than when we first rescued her!

Sophie's better - and Charlie's got perky ears again!

So, when Roberto's owner contacted me, I was really touched to get a message asking if Sophie was better, but also really saddened by the fact that her bunny was suffering too – and had not been offered a wormer. As bunnies can be wormed anyway (and should be routinely I learned!) it shouldn't harm them to take it. After offering to send her a spare pack that I had, she ordered some from her vet. That was the last I heard – until today.

And, guess what? Roberto's getting better!! And I hope he continues to go from strength to strength!

I felt so happy for her and remembered how relieved I was (I could hardly believe it!) when Sophie started to improve that I thought I'd share the love with everyone else.

Isn't the world of social media amazing?!

Antic Disposition's Much Ado About Nothing, in Puy L'Evêque

As we wandered across the bridge into Puy L'Evêque last night – after parking on a grass verge along with the other cars, feeling wrong about it, but concluding that it's France and that's what people do – I breathed the dusk air in deeply on catching sight of the gathering crowd by the river. Despite also inhaling holidaymakers' roast chicken from the nearby restaurant, I filled up with anticipation for what I hoped would be a rip-roaring show.

I'm ashamed to say it, but the last time I saw live theatre was in the very same place last year, by the same theatre company, Antic Disposition.

Having been so surprised by the professionalism of this small company, I booked my tickets online for 'Much Ado About Nothing' months ago.

Puy L'Evêque is a little maze-like in places, which makes sense as it's a medieval town, so it took us a few moments to figure out how to get to La Cale, the old port, nestled by the Lot's riverbank, where the boats used to dock.

I think we, oddly, must've been given the best seats in the house. The performance itself was taking place in a very small and modest area surrounded by several rows of chairs. After finding the 'lady in red' who seemed quite stressed and was really more maroony, we were positioned in the front row of the terrace, above and behind the 'standard' audience seating, overlooking the river. We actually didn't have to sway our heads to avoid a big fat head or listen to anyone giggle to their friend!

All the performances oozed talent, but exceptional was Ashley Cook who played the Beatrice-hating Benedick. He was captivating. His gusto, wit and sarcasm reminded me of Rik Mayall at his best, with a hint of Alan Rickman - and there's someone else there that I can't quite put my finger on yet. With all that timing and presence I just wanted to keep watching.

As the evening darkened, with a floodlight on either side of the 'stage' and the river behind, there descended a flurry of moths, all competing for the bright lamps. The cast continued while these dancing feathers gave their own performance overhead. There must've been hundreds catching and diving the lights. It was spectacular, but perhaps not for the performers - I did notice one actress retriving a sorry moth from her mouth.

As the play ended the audience could not have clapped with more vigour. The co-directors (and founders), John Risebero and Ben Horslen, surely must've caught each other's eye, silently agreeing that the idea of performing these plays genuinely, on cobbled stones and village squares in south-west France, had been a genius idea. I just wish it wasn't only once a year!

New France-based freelance journalist/writer website launched

I have finally finished one of my latest missions: creating a proper website that contains information about my writing background and makes finding and reading published pieces easy to locate and read for clients.

I even bought my name domain, so the site's at: www.francespenwillcook.com! I'm slightly over-excited about that - clearly I should have done this years ago.

I'm writing this post a little awkwardly as it does seem like shameless self-promotion, but, as I've spent all this time putting her together, I think she needs to set sail. So, I'm cracking a bottle of bubbly on her side and sending her out into the virtual ocean - where I hope she navigates previously-unchartered territory and brings back lots of treasures!

Well-mannered grasshopper says "bonjour"

As if making friends with a spider (who we have now officially named 'Thumbnail') wasn't enough, earlier this morning I met a new creature, who seemed very nice.

I said "hello" and he replied with a "bonjour" and some face washing. He then explained that he didn't mean to be rude, but he needed to go for a wander to work off his breakfast.

Impeccable manners - I'm thinking about introducing him to Little Ted.

See for yourself in this film....

Nature solves fly problem

Not long ago I posted about the fly problem in our new office and I started off with DIY solutions - in the interests of budgeting - but didn't have much luck.

I put a net up at the door (which I wish I'd done before because it helps!), but want to know the best one so far?

Remember the tan, thumbnail-sized spider?

Well, he seems to have come up trumps!

Good old nature.

Puppy grows up and guards against Light Monster

The beginning
Little Ted was the cutest yet most annoying puppy in the world. Unruly and mannerless he used to think nothing of leaping on the coffee table to eat your cake, whining relentlessly to go outside if he was inside - and inside if he was outside (drove us insane) and gobbling his food while pee peeing at the same time. He had the most pathetic bladder, which caused misery before he was toilet trained.

Still, when we went out for walks he stuck by our side and followed his older brother Truman.

Being a teenager
As he ventured into teenagerdom, he started to wave two fingers when we called him. Often our evening stroll would turn into an emergency search party - sometimes involving the car so that we could cover the area more quickly. The little ratbag moves fast.

Because only one of his ears works properly - one stands up tall, the other flops - I wondered at one point if he could actually hear correctly. He can, just often he's selective about what he'll respond to.

As he got taller, he found he could launch his front paws onto the kitchen side and find food. Peach's first egg was consumed from this very place.

One day when I left their large, newly-opened dog food tin on the side by the fridge, which was full and needed rearranging, I returned to find the sparkling, empty tin on the floor along with a stinking present! Very nice and the direct result of stuffing himself (although I suspect Truman played the biggest part in the consuming, despite Little Ted instigating the theft).

He also liked playing with and eating socks. I found lots of evidence that he consumed his favourite pink ski sock, which wasn't just from this picture above (if you know what I mean).

The first love
Then a pretty young yellow girl (Lab) moved in up the road. It was love at first sight. At any available opportunity she would come here, or he would go there, so they could “be together”. We had to make an area where he could be free, but not wander off up the road.

We created a courtyard, by building a fence, so we could be outside without having to watch him constantly. It took days to erect and we still haven't painted it all, but it's up and running.

Hard work? Yes.
Pretty? Yes.
Effective? No.

It took Little Ted five minutes of assessing the joint to escape. Of course we would usually find him at his girlfriend's house. They spent every moment they could chasing, licking and playing. Truman had no interest and seemed bored by their constant need to interact.

To prevent Little Ted escaping again we added obstacles near the fence's weak points, but their love proved too much and our agile monkey and his girl, on several occasions, both disappeared. They were not to be found anywhere yet would return from their romp, an hour or two later, thirsty and hungry - and smiling from ear to ear.

Becoming responsible
Recently, Little Ted - or perhaps “Fickle Ted” - has lost interest in escaping to see his girlfriend. He has grown up and has got himself a job.

These days he prefers to guard us from the Light Monster, a creature that appears mid-afternoon and tends to lurk around the kitchen door - mostly appearing when it opens and closes.

Little Ted spies the Light Monster.

He now attends to this duty in a very committed fashion in the courtyard all day, ear pricked, tail high, looking for the Light Monster - only pausing to have a quick tail chase and gobble flying insects when the monster isn't lurking.

He hasn't tried to escape once since getting his new job. Becoming rather responsible, he prefers to wait for the monster to appear. Lately he spends his afternoons in a cloud of dust skidding to catch the monster.

Truman is slightly bemused by this and not in the least bit bothered about helping Little Ted save us from the clutches of the Light Monster. He prefers to compete for attention by performing his "stretch" trick.

McDonald's or McHell in France and importing the Land Rover

Today I woke up with a sore throat and feeling coldy. Perhaps all the fly spray that has slithered down my 'gorge' of late hasn't helped. Feeling dreadful, I put off the inevitable until this afternoon - trailing to Cahors (to the Hotel des Impôts and prefecture) to finalise the import of our Landrover into France.

At the Hotel des Impôts, despite being made to feel like an illegal immigrant with a bag of heroin at an airport - the questions about the car suspiciously posed like a police investigation - we got our 'quitus fiscal'. It wasn't 'quitus quick' as we had to wait some time, mid-frisk, while our lady had a long conversation on the phone. Eventually we were done. “You'll just have time for the prefecture,” she said smiling. Great, because that had been the plan.

Hub was giving me sympathy on the way to the prefecture because of my poorly mode and he asked what would cheer me up. Now, I know that he hates McDonald's, but I love the fries. However, the last time we had tried McDonald's in France we went to a drive-thru, which had involved waiting for over half an hour at various windows. In the end we had turned the car off and gave up all hope of eating or ever getting home. I knew the prospect of going again might not go down well.

“I'd love a Maccy D's - can we?” I asked tentatively, wondering how high up the sympathy scale I was.
“Course, if it'll make you feel better,” he said.
So, I perked up with the prospect of a Filet-O-Fish and fries.

All went well at the prefecture until we were asked to pay €176 instead of €90, the cost of the 'carte grise' for our Renault Clio. Not only this, but we were handed a piece of A4 paper for our trouble instead of the actual 'carte grise', which they said would be sent in the post (must be a new rule because they printed the last one out there and then).

With our mission complete I excitedly awaited the prospect of fries. On our approach hub suggested the drive-thru - I couldn't believe that and reminded him of our last experience. We agreed to eat in, quickly, so we had time afterwards to pick up groceries at the shop.

Inside, we had been in the un-moving queue for a while. There were two young guys in front of me. One had a bright yellow all-in-one cycling outfit on and one was dressed in white, had greasy slicked-back hair, blue-mirrored sunglasses and kept twirling around flamboyantly in the queue laughing and slapping his friend on the back. Eventually it was their turn and I had a sinking feeling their annoyingness might just extend to their ordering.

It did. They hadn't worked out what they were going to order while they were waiting like everybody else. They spent the next ten minutes discussing, with the McDonald's girl and each other, what to have. Mid-conversation an old white-haired couple came to the front of the queue from outside, stealing the girl's attention, as they'd been waiting too long at the drive-thru and had come impatiently inside to collect their food.

Once that was dealt with, finally the boys' order was placed and they went and sat down with half of it - they would need to come back for the rest. The two queues were building up. A German man was in the other and he'd started ordering before the boys in front of us, there was some kind of problem. People were getting twitchy.

Just as we were about to order, a woman with two little children came in and stole the show because she'd also decided to come in for her drive-thru meal. Once that was sorted, we still couldn't order because the girl had to prepare the boys' food - and then check things, lots and lots of things - and call them to get it and then have little bit of a laugh with them when they did.

At this point we noticed there wasn't anyone doing the 'frites'. There was no one salting them or scooping them into holders. There wasn't even anybody cooking them. There were just enough to fill one more packet.

Eventually she was ready to take my order. “Two maxi menus,” I asked and ordered one Filet-O-Fish with chips and coke and one Cheese Royal with chips and coke. “Wow, it's actually quick once you order,” hub remarked. He may have spoken too soon.

She brought the cokes and fetched the sad packet of fries. They sat on the tray while we waited for five to ten minutes while she checked some things. She said she'd charged me wrong and revealed we were waiting for two Filet-O-Fishes and one chips. This isn't right, I told her, I ordered two maxi menus - and promptly repeated the order.

She brought her boss in to help. Thinking that I didn't understand what she was saying, she told her boss (in French) I had ordered two Filet-O-Fish and one chips. I chipped in at this point protesting that this wasn't true. She nodded at me and asked for 40 cents. I reached into my bag and she asked me what the order was. Filet-O-Fish, 'frites', Coca. Cheese Royal, 'frites', Coca. Maxi. Then we were re-issued with a new white receipt as long as a kite tail. I told the girl's boss that I wasn't now keen to have the chips that had been sitting on the tray for the last God knows how long with my meal. They were cold.

By now we had been in McHell Hole for well over half an hour and I was starting to get impatient. We needed to get the groceries. When, eventually, a Royal-O-Fish was put on our tray I could feel my eyes trying to pop out. I ordered a Filet-O-Fish! How many times do I need to describe the order, people?

The supervisor came over - again. I explained - again. The supervisor sent the Royal-O-Fish back. We waited for another five minutes when a Cheese Royal was put on the tray. No chips, no Filet-O-Fish and two slowly-warming cokes. Then, clasping the till receipt, the girl circled several items, which I assume was the Filet-O-Fish and the chips. She said we'd have to wait.

As my eyes checked in on the chip fryers I could see there was still no action and that it would be at least another ten minutes even if they started cooking chips now - which they weren't.

I visualised the meal. I'd be sipping coke, waiting for my Filet and fries, while hub guiltily munched his Cheese Royal waiting for his chips. For €12.60? No thanks.

So, after scraping my fingernails down the restaurant window, we told them we just couldn't wait any more and asked for our money back. Blank looks.

“You'll have to wait,” they said.
“What for?” I asked.
“I'm not authorised to give money back,” she replied.

So, we waited. Then the manager ambled towards us from the back of the kitchen, slowly and silently got the money out of the till and said, “Thank you, madam.” In English.

No apology, no “sorry about the wait, madam”.

Go to McCrap in France again? I would rather have a fly spray milkshake.

Problems with flies in France - but not with Obama's swatting

Last month we converted the covered area outside our kitchen door into an office. It was absolutely amazing to move all our office equipment outside in a dedicated working space. Hub worked tirelessly putting up the tongue and groove walls, painting them to match the shutters, putting down flooring and making doors and windows.

Before.

It's our first proper dedicated office space since we got together about six years ago. We now 'go out' to work and have stopped driving each other mad working in such close proximity upstairs. (Since then we've gone on to decorate the bedrooms, which are now de-cluttered and pretty instead of full of files and PCs). We'll insulate it for winter, but for summer it will be perfect - or so we thought.

After.

It's all good apart from one thing. The flies. Not once in all our careful planning did we consider this. As I write I'm flicking off flies, the swatter is an extension of my arm and my glass desk is smeared with fly spray particles. Despite it being 'sans odeur' my throat feels as though I've drunk diluted diesel. I'm the creator of a fly graveyard, the floor looks as though it has hailed dismembered fly bodies. As I smash the keyboard for the millionth time with the swatter I try to avoid the delete key and return button - especially if I'm half way through an email for a job application incase it sends my unfinished cover letter. And I'm having trouble viewing images on screen – all my photographs seem to have developed dried red splats. And have I mentioned the delightful feeling of two, or sometimes three flies humping each other on your bare arm as you type?

Our neighbours have told us that once you have horses and the like then it's like Disneyland for an eight year old. It's better when I shut the door, but with the dogs rushing in and out I'm up and down like a bouncing ball, plus, I need the light that comes in through the door to work - I hate to use the electricity and artificial light when there's no need...and it's depressing when the sun's shining outside.

Inside the main house we keep the rooms dark - no light, no heat - and shutters closed. There are nets on two of our windows (connected by velcro around the window frame) that keep the majority out when we decide we've had enough of mooching around like badgers in the dark. We do still get one or two upstairs. My absolute favourite thing is being woken up early by the sudden landing of a fly on my cheek. It really sets me up for the day.

I've never read in any glossy France magazine about the problem with flies in the French countryside. Nothing prepares you for it. Forget the language barrier, I'm pretty sure mum decided to go back to the UK because she couldn't stand the flies! It's so odd because in the winter, when they disappear, you completely forget about the summer fly problem as you yearn for the warmer months. My mind focuses 101% on how much more pleasant the summer is than the winter. Well, I'm going to try and stop my silly selective memory from forgetting about the flies later this year when I'm huddled around the fire like my gran with a knitted blanket on my legs. I shall be glad for a reprieve. (I bet I'll be wishing for BBQs, light evenings and sunshine).

How could PETA have criticised Obama for swatting a persistent fly? And this from the girl who tried to save a field mouse? And I helped one get out of the chicken food bin this morning. I hate killing any living creature, but what else can you do with these devils? Obama's speed and composure was amazing though. I am actually glad that fly existed just so we could see that, he went up in my estimation even more. He'd be good competition for Mr Miyagi.

The horses are complaining and ask for their fly masks to be put on if we ever have to take them off. And last year our bunny, Mia Elvis, died from fly strike (long story, but basically it involved maggots and her bottom - and it was dreadful). Why save the flies when they're attacking the animals that really give us pleasure? I've even grown to love spiders - especially the thumbnail-sized tan one in the office that patrols his huge, sticky web so dedicatedly. He mummifies at least two a day. Good work.

We tried the sticky tape last year, but I left it hanging too low and got my hair caught up in it so it was more effective at making me bald than catching the flies. The swatters keep losing pieces of plastic they're seeing so much action and I'm not sure I can swallow any more fly spray. The 'effect choc' is starting to make me feel like I'm on acid.

So, I'm looking into the following solutions:

RedTop fly catchers
(They must sell something like this in France, I need to investigate.)

Electric zappers
(I would rather not use electricity though.)

The Executioner
(Needs batteries, but this looks like fun - I don't want to have fun zapping the flies, it's not right, I need a way where they're sealing their own fate.)

DIY version
(I read about this on Equine Online's forum. I might try this.)

Any other solutions? Give me a buzz.

Lucky's cousin, Rocky Rooster, needs fence to stop chickens crossing road

Today Lucky's cousin, Rocky (Rooster), who lives in Natick in the States, submitted a job post on Fixr.com for a carpenter to come and build him a fence so that he can stop his chickens crossing the road.

It seems that Lucky told him all about our new fence here, how it keeps in his girls - and Little Ted (although LT has found an escape route since he developed a crush on a girl pup up the road so they can 'be together') - and how much he loves the whiteness of the wood (even though at the moment it's just undercoat).

This was good timing for Rocky, who is having problems with his ladies as they're starting to lay eggs and so he's finding them in all sorts of odd places. At first it was just inside (the same way we found Peach in the hole under the original sink), but now they're legging it across the road and Rocky's fed up with acting the security guard and patrolling the pavement outside...he needs a break - and some time out - so he can go out shopping (for popcorn).

The link to the actual job post is here:

http://www.fixr.com/n.rooster-needs-fence-to-stop-chickens-crossing-road.natick.ma.html

But I've also copied and pasted it below:

Job poster: Rocky Rooster

Posted on: 07/17

Category: Wood, Carpentry
Location: Natick, MA

Job Description

I'm a pretty lucky rooster with five ladies in my harem. It was six until Bluebell met a Ford last week and this is why I'm seeking help. Damn, I miss that hen! The girls have hit a certain time of life. They're starting to lay eggs, which seems to be making them a bit crazy. At first I was finding them in random places inside like the sink and the cupboard, but now they're starting to cross the road. I need some help controlling them and think if I had a fence and gate constructed it would do the trick and I could keep them in.

About the Gate

Our wings aren't clipped so it needs to be human-sized. Although the girls are pretty, they're not all that clever, so if a pull-cord - or something like that (I'm looking for ideas) - was included on the latch I would be able to get out and about...go out for takeout popcorn from the local cinema without worry, basically.

About the Fence

I'm a big fan of ranch fencing, but the posts need to be fairly close together so they can't squeeze through. It's amazing how small they can make themselves, freaky almost. I love white gloss, it's beautiful, so I'd need a white undercoat and then a gloss finish on the top coat.

About the Timescale

The chickens are obsessed with the other side of the road. I need some down time from patrolling the pavement, so the sooner we can get this thing up and running the better. If that requires overtime and evening and weekend work then that's fine with me. I've got the cash...I just need to get some popcorn, real bad.

Lavender fields forever and returning to the UK

Over the weekend I helped my parents move some of their furniture as they are returning back to the UK. They have been here in France for about twelve months now, looking for a place to live, but in the end there were many reasons why they just couldn't stay: language barrier, health concerns, exchange rate, difficulty finding the 'right' place...all of these combined meant that life was in many ways more straightforward for them back in the UK.

I love them being able to pop in and I will miss them hugely. They've been absolutely amazing bringing groceries with them when they come (they, without fail, ring up and ask us what we want and stop off 'en route' to buy it - they're way better than Ocado because they never want the money for it either). They also stay and look after the animals when we've needed to go away together and come up for lunches, dinners and cups of tea. I shall miss their local support so much.

Since I left home they've always been at least a few hours away, so having them around locally has been a great experience. However, I'll happily go without it if it means they can feel settled again and happy in their own place. My mum is a real homebody and not having her own home this last year has been very difficult for her. I just wish she wasn't sad about leaving me, us, here. I keep telling her I'll be fine, unfortunately there isn't really a different resolution.

They're not averse to living in different countries, they were in South Africa when I was born and they brought me back to the UK. My mum just doesn't feel 100% in control here. She can't understand contracts the same way she would in English or how the system works - and not knowing what's being said to her with regards to her and dad's health worries her greatly (even though they're both pretty fit right now). It's a fair point - when I had to go to hospital last year it was pretty scary not being able to understand what people were saying, especially when you're already stressed from having to be in hospital. Also, this is probably the last place they'll ever move to, so it does need to be the right decision.

On the way to their place, which isn't far from Bourg de Visa, we drive past the most beautiful lavender field. I made hub stop the other day so I could get up close to it and take some pictures. It's absolutely stunning. I don't think I have ever seen one like this that stretches out as far as the eye can see. I had read that in Apt (principal town of the Luberon mountains in the Vaucluse department) there were reportedly vipers resting under bushes in lavender fields – fortunately there didn't seem to be any here.

When we left, just up the road there was a little sign advertising lavender essential oils. Lavender is apparently known as the 'mother' of essential oils and can do anything. French lavender is held in high esteem because it's usually grown at high altitudes – where high altitude distillation means lower-temperature boiling – and has a high ester count, meaning it has a stronger tinge to the scent.

We've actually got some lavender growing in our garden. The bees and butterflies go mad for it. I'm not sure how special it is, but for someone who didn't used to like the smell of lavender I've become a massive convert.

How Mighty might've been

Last night Mighty went to sleep with his new blue and yellow mice friends, which I had bought for him for €2.15 in Gamm Vert yesterday. We had stayed up late watching the news about Michael Jackson's death. (What a shock to hear that he has died! I can't believe people on BBC News are being interviewed today at Glastonbury just worrying about their gig refunds! Have a heart, people!)

Mighty is even smaller than tiny mice toys for kittens.

It's 1am by the time I get into bed and, having fed Mighty half an hour beforehand, I set my alarm for 3am. That time whizzes by and I almost sleep through its bleeping two hours later. I'm not best of friends with the alarm. All in a good cause though, I think. I can't see where Mighty is when I first look for him. I find him far away from his warm area (half his blanket is on a hot water bottle and half isn't so he can get cool if he needs to), but he feels really cold.

Mighty when we first found him.

We had brought the kettle up - and all the other feeding essentials again - so that we could avoid going downstairs and disturbing the dogs (Little Ted would need to go out for a pee pee if we woke him up) - but it takes longer to warm the milk like this. It's only 15 seconds in the microwave and I think to myself that it's taking a bit too long this time. I fill a jug with boiling water and then stand a glass cup of cat's milk in it (which we also bought yesterday - along with some mouse seed, which was a bit optimistic). I wait for it to warm to a good temperature, but Mighty is very cold. Despite this, though, once the milk is ready he's feeding well.

He clutches the milky cotton bud with both of his hands and looks like he's eating a big ice cream or about to tentatively sing something into a large white microphone. He licks, licks, licks with his tongue and doesn't seem to want to stop. Normally he'll bat off the bud the second that he loses interest in eating. “Get it away from me now...that hideous monstrosity!” he seems to say as he pushes it dramatically with his hands and looks the other way in a flounce to avoid the seemingly despicable sight.

Mighty and his microphone.

To give him a break from feeding I use the other end of the cotton bud to rub him near his tail - to prevent blockages. The white of the cotton usually goes yellow so I know that the food is passing through him properly. However, this didn't happen at 3 o'clock this morning. At first I thought it might be that I couldn't see it properly in the dim light, but it wasn't. He seemed to be struggling more and more. I didn't want to rub too hard, but I increased the pace, I guess his mum would start furiously licking if she thought something was wrong.

No joy. Okay, what now? I put him down on his bed as I figured maybe some more warmth could help. But he didn't move. I picked him up again to try and rub some more and he still didn't move.

And I knew then that was it. His mouth was partly open and he looked how his brother did yesterday when he died.

Of course I'm sad, although I wouldn't say too much about that to my French neighbour who laughed (kindly) at me and waved her arms around to create a kind of killing action in response to my news about helping an abandoned mouse.

I buried him this morning by the rosemary bush.

Because of the way he seemed to be so certain about what he did and didn't like, even though he was so young and his eyes weren't even open yet, I had started to imagine that when he was older he'd be like the mouse in "fonejacker" - the one who uses the phone and "has a bit of a cat problem".

If you haven't seen it, here it is below in all its hilariousness - in memory of The truly fascinating Mighty mouse.