It's been an eventful time of late, one could almost call it "hectic" but comparative to other jobs and lifestyles, thang is probably a little too strong.
Still, since Ruth departed we have left holiday mode behind and, for eight days at least, we worked fairly solidly to get the place up to scratch for Ros' visit.
I haven't yet outlined the character who is our boss yet for fear that I would not do her justice, yet on our second encounter with her I feel better placed to do so.
Undoubtedly she is the poshest person I have ever met. It simply oozes out of her skeletal frame which emerges from a cloud of cigarette smoke at almost every moment. The villa is littered with ornate ashtrays, we wondered why there were so many, everywhere you turned until we spent five minutes with Ros.
She is constantly fraught, in a rush, on the phone, chain smoking, having the worst day ever after only three hours sleep. I'd say she needs to slow down at her age, but because of the amount of plastic surgery, it is quite hard to deduce what age that might be.
I'm not painting the nicest picture of a woman who describes her work ethic in the garden as "working like a black". She's startlingly old school and not without her quirks, clearly at odds with having to rent her property out to holiday makers who will likely mess the place up and leave the grounds in the hands of amateur gardeners looking to have a pleasant summer like ourselves.
Yet she is kind of admirable in her forthright manner, scattish teaching methods, fleeting hurried visits. She is likely a little off the rails, is held up seemingly only by two dozen cigarettes and Coke Zero's a day. Definitely a little mad, possibly on the verge of a breakdown or possibly a heart attack. I like her.
We survived her 24 hour visit with husband John comfortably enough, although being drive two and from the airport by each was anything but. John has a glint in his eye, the easy manner of a man who had succeeded at life, knows what he wants and how to get it. If that happens to be getting to Marseille airport in under one hour and twenty minutes then he will, and i will cling on for dear life all the way.
Weaving through traffic at 100mph was the second life threatening happening in one week. Earlier in the week having discovered the trials and tribulations of attempting to dispose of a cracked, heavy, two inch thick glass table top.
Having lifted it only to discover it too heavy to hold, then dropping it and it smashing into a million small pieces, I then at a moment of weakness having lugged a heavy wheelbarrow up the four steep levels from the garden shed to the terrace, proceeded to catch my leg on a particularly large and sharp piece of glass protruding from one of the neatly stacked piles we had gathered it.
I can imagine the sensation being similar to that of someone slowly slicing your leg open with a knife. Hell, no, a sword! It was a slow and agonizing moment. My scream must have been loud and unlike any I've previously produced (though incredibly manly I'm sure), because Natasha appeared incredibly quickly to see me clutching my leg, blood spilling down it into my sock and trainer.
Fortunately the initial bleeding was short lived, the wound wider than it was deep. But so wide it couldn't be pushed together.
Stitches would be necessary. They cost me €14.72. My stay at Gassin Hospital could have lasted no longer than an hour. I wasn't even in the waiting room long enough to send a text to my worried partner. So France does medical care really well, who knew? I hope to not find out again.
I stayed off the leg for a day or two and relayed to Aunt Rosamund that work in the garden would have to slacken off for a few days. Convenient when we were already playing catch up from our holiday week with Ruth!
Anyway we came out unscathed, Ros has returned to her busy, mysterious world in London and the leg is healing. Life rebuffs to what has become normality here.
Saturday, 31 May 2014
Tuesday, 20 May 2014
To Build A Home
This day three weeks ago we awoke in the "studio" apartment that we were to call home until October.
Natasha referred to it as the garage and as soon as Ros was gone we swiftly upgraded ourselves to the Grand Cabanon, or Large Cottage figuring that as we would have to clean it eventually we may as well enjoy the luxury a little.
Yet oddly enough it has not been until we have moved back into our more humble abode, freshly spring cleaned, with a few choice items from the villa and some indoor plants, that I have begun to feel a sense of homeliness.
A sense of guilt and constant unease as if doing something we weren't supposed to always plagued us before. It also briefly gave us the false sense that we were kind of on holiday here.
So ironically it was the arrival of my sister Ruth, visiting us for a four day holiday that broke the spell - we moved out of the cottage and into our intended quarters so she could rightfully enjoy the cottage as a holiday maker should.
Granted you could say we spent most of her four day stay as holiday makers ourselves, yet I prefer the term "holiday guides" or even "reps"!
We showed her the beaches, St Tropez town, our favorite village of Grimaud, cooked, drank and sunbathed lavishly. It was a joyous occasion, the tonic for a week of feeling a little lost and confused. Knowing that what we had got ourselves into was this time a good thing, but not really knowing what to do with it.
Straddling the line between enjoying what was before us without guilt and taking it seriously without getting bogged down can be tough.
This is the ardour of working in a holiday destination; how do you find the balance between enjoying the luxurious surroundings all seemingly angled toward holiday makers and visitors and realizing you are here for work, to work, to save, because you don't want to clean villas and sweep leaves the rest of your life.
Since Ruth left two days ago we remain in our apartment, tonight reading with jazz on after a fine meal of paprika lemon white fish in a chick pea, courgette and tomato relish. It has a sense of home now, despite that home in this case is one room.
We spent the day on one section of the garden after I was gently coaxed out of a sense of despair; the aftermath of the debilitating effects wind and rain can have on a man.
We felt proud after. Sore, but satisfied. It occurred to me that if we treat this garden like well and spend time in it then where we live will not only be in the four walls, one room we currently call home, it will expand beyond the door and gradually radiate into the plants, grass and soil beyond.
Natasha referred to it as the garage and as soon as Ros was gone we swiftly upgraded ourselves to the Grand Cabanon, or Large Cottage figuring that as we would have to clean it eventually we may as well enjoy the luxury a little.
Yet oddly enough it has not been until we have moved back into our more humble abode, freshly spring cleaned, with a few choice items from the villa and some indoor plants, that I have begun to feel a sense of homeliness.
A sense of guilt and constant unease as if doing something we weren't supposed to always plagued us before. It also briefly gave us the false sense that we were kind of on holiday here.
So ironically it was the arrival of my sister Ruth, visiting us for a four day holiday that broke the spell - we moved out of the cottage and into our intended quarters so she could rightfully enjoy the cottage as a holiday maker should.
Granted you could say we spent most of her four day stay as holiday makers ourselves, yet I prefer the term "holiday guides" or even "reps"!
We showed her the beaches, St Tropez town, our favorite village of Grimaud, cooked, drank and sunbathed lavishly. It was a joyous occasion, the tonic for a week of feeling a little lost and confused. Knowing that what we had got ourselves into was this time a good thing, but not really knowing what to do with it.
Straddling the line between enjoying what was before us without guilt and taking it seriously without getting bogged down can be tough.
This is the ardour of working in a holiday destination; how do you find the balance between enjoying the luxurious surroundings all seemingly angled toward holiday makers and visitors and realizing you are here for work, to work, to save, because you don't want to clean villas and sweep leaves the rest of your life.
Since Ruth left two days ago we remain in our apartment, tonight reading with jazz on after a fine meal of paprika lemon white fish in a chick pea, courgette and tomato relish. It has a sense of home now, despite that home in this case is one room.
We spent the day on one section of the garden after I was gently coaxed out of a sense of despair; the aftermath of the debilitating effects wind and rain can have on a man.
We felt proud after. Sore, but satisfied. It occurred to me that if we treat this garden like well and spend time in it then where we live will not only be in the four walls, one room we currently call home, it will expand beyond the door and gradually radiate into the plants, grass and soil beyond.
Thursday, 8 May 2014
Asparagus Syndrome
I've always enjoyed Asparagus.
Well, once I'd progressed beyond only eating Philadelphia cheese and other white or occasionally green foods.
I have rarely taken the time to ponder what a strange and wonderful vegetable it is until I had for the third time in two weeks enjoyed this Springtime veg, so willing to compliment other foods, imposing itself without being overbearing.
On this occasion with simple spaghetti, olive oil, freshly grown basil, one of those juicy lemons again, roasted pistachios and crumbly feta.
The way it is crisp and crunchy yet moist and delicate, almost exploding in your mouth which is already bursting with flavours thanks to Natasha's natural talent for harnessing and enhancing big flavours.
Not to mention the look of it. It's almost prehistoric and scaly tip, deep green gradually widening to a paler trunk. I wouldn't look out of place in a line up of lizards.
Yet it has an elegance too, I imagine a row of them poking out of the ground in a field, swaying like corn in the breeze. I have no notion how they are grown, but I enjoy the mystery for now until I wish to grow my own.
Roasted, fried, boiled, the versatile 'Gus as I have affectionately name it (just now) can take any form of cookery you want to throw at it, as long as you add butter, oil, garlic and seasoning it will blow you away.
Later in the evening you will wonder and perhaps momentarily panic as to why your wee smells so strange and is so green, but ah, it's just ole'Gus reminding you he was here.
Wednesday, 7 May 2014
The Therapeutic Art of Watering and Cooking
I wasn't going to write today. Inexplicably I didn't wake up smiling, but tired and lethargic, the thought of cleaning a bathroom full of tiles and stainless steel filling me with a slow dread.
Another pigeon French phone call with the guys at Monsieur Piscine eased one worry; Bruno, the guy who actually comes to fix piscines, who has thus far been unreachable due to him being "incredibly busy", will call me when he returns to the office. Great.
So coffee and fruit buying at the weekly village market was our only journey to be made away from the villa today.
We have already sussed out our preferred cafe on the small strip of eatery and drinkeries in the village, Le Bar Solei striking all the right notes - good strong coffee, free snacks if you order alcoholic drinks including new drink of choice Rose Peche (iced Rose with Peach liqueur - not something I ever imagined enjoying) and as the name suggests, it's in the sun, which also goes some way to explaining why the Rose is so refreshing.
We watch people go by, including our friend from the other night Inge, who either doesn't see us or chooses to avoid our gaze. We don't mind either way, it's early and the coffee hasn't kicked in yet.
At the market we pick up supplies for today's menu - salmon, radish, petit pois, and fruit.
Would you believe two lemons almost cost us €3 had we not only had €2.30. We're they ripping us off because we were English? They were sizable lemons and probably produced twice as much juice and twice as zesty than those minute shriveled specimens Tesco offers. But still you have to wonder.
The bathroom task has still not been addressed, and the sunshine and warmth outside is not helping my focus. I curse and strop through the whole process, making it take twice as long as it could, berating myself for doing so all the while.
It's a bad trait and it takes half an hour of sunbathing by the pool to rid myself of the feeling.
Yet still I can't shake it off entirely as every time I see the dark green algae tinged pool I wish it was clean and blue so I could dive in, a welcome respite from the heat of the day.
Restlessly I take in a chapter of my current read, the short chapter a revelation of how life could be different if we could cast aside the shackles of commerciality and engage with the earth and nature.
A fine ideal.
I decide it's time I engage with this damned swimming pool, if Bruno won't come, I must try myself, for my own sanity at least.
I spend the next hour brushing Algae and leaves from the pool walls and floor. It looks marginally better.
Natasha looks a little crispy having deservedly lain out after ironing a dozen sofa cushion covers, and offers the idea of getting tonic from the village, a refreshing idea when coupled with the gin and limes we bought earlier.
Yet en route the guilt creeps back in and I feel a desolate annoyance at what I have achieved today. I sulk there and back before inexplicably setting up the sprinklers on my return.
The heat must have got to me, it could explain my mood and after a few days a solid sun I'm feeling guilty for the grass and plants.
The simple process of watering them gradually restores my mood and clarity, as if refreshing my memory of where I am and how simple life can be.
I prepare a sumptuously fresh meal of baked Salmon with lemon (worth every penny), Rosemary par-boiled/fried potatoes and petit pois, accompanied by a gin mint julep.
It is gratefully received by a ravenous, sun drenched Natasha and we toast by the fire, her more literally than me.
In the kitchen creating this fresh meal I felt alive and content, as I did watering the plants. No coincidence that the process of watering plants is what made part of the meal I made.
Simple pleasures can unravel and untangle wrought iron thoughts and strains, something I come to realise as I put pen to pad tonight and say goodbye to the day.
Another pigeon French phone call with the guys at Monsieur Piscine eased one worry; Bruno, the guy who actually comes to fix piscines, who has thus far been unreachable due to him being "incredibly busy", will call me when he returns to the office. Great.
So coffee and fruit buying at the weekly village market was our only journey to be made away from the villa today.
We have already sussed out our preferred cafe on the small strip of eatery and drinkeries in the village, Le Bar Solei striking all the right notes - good strong coffee, free snacks if you order alcoholic drinks including new drink of choice Rose Peche (iced Rose with Peach liqueur - not something I ever imagined enjoying) and as the name suggests, it's in the sun, which also goes some way to explaining why the Rose is so refreshing.
We watch people go by, including our friend from the other night Inge, who either doesn't see us or chooses to avoid our gaze. We don't mind either way, it's early and the coffee hasn't kicked in yet.
At the market we pick up supplies for today's menu - salmon, radish, petit pois, and fruit.
Would you believe two lemons almost cost us €3 had we not only had €2.30. We're they ripping us off because we were English? They were sizable lemons and probably produced twice as much juice and twice as zesty than those minute shriveled specimens Tesco offers. But still you have to wonder.
The bathroom task has still not been addressed, and the sunshine and warmth outside is not helping my focus. I curse and strop through the whole process, making it take twice as long as it could, berating myself for doing so all the while.
It's a bad trait and it takes half an hour of sunbathing by the pool to rid myself of the feeling.
Yet still I can't shake it off entirely as every time I see the dark green algae tinged pool I wish it was clean and blue so I could dive in, a welcome respite from the heat of the day.
Restlessly I take in a chapter of my current read, the short chapter a revelation of how life could be different if we could cast aside the shackles of commerciality and engage with the earth and nature.
A fine ideal.
I decide it's time I engage with this damned swimming pool, if Bruno won't come, I must try myself, for my own sanity at least.
I spend the next hour brushing Algae and leaves from the pool walls and floor. It looks marginally better.
Natasha looks a little crispy having deservedly lain out after ironing a dozen sofa cushion covers, and offers the idea of getting tonic from the village, a refreshing idea when coupled with the gin and limes we bought earlier.
Yet en route the guilt creeps back in and I feel a desolate annoyance at what I have achieved today. I sulk there and back before inexplicably setting up the sprinklers on my return.
The heat must have got to me, it could explain my mood and after a few days a solid sun I'm feeling guilty for the grass and plants.
The simple process of watering them gradually restores my mood and clarity, as if refreshing my memory of where I am and how simple life can be.
I prepare a sumptuously fresh meal of baked Salmon with lemon (worth every penny), Rosemary par-boiled/fried potatoes and petit pois, accompanied by a gin mint julep.
It is gratefully received by a ravenous, sun drenched Natasha and we toast by the fire, her more literally than me.
In the kitchen creating this fresh meal I felt alive and content, as I did watering the plants. No coincidence that the process of watering plants is what made part of the meal I made.
Simple pleasures can unravel and untangle wrought iron thoughts and strains, something I come to realise as I put pen to pad tonight and say goodbye to the day.
Tuesday, 6 May 2014
Welcome to St Tropez Bay
We have been in this paradise for a little over a week.
Nestled just above the hillside village of La Garde Freinet, overlooking the bay where the famed port and resort of St Tropez lies some 15 km away.
Photos of the luxury villa that now lies in our charge for the next five months scarcely do it justice with it's slightly faded and crumbly terracotta walls, light blue shutters, steep layered garden and stunning views.
Yet as I lie here in the large cottage (one of three living areas on site) with the faint sound of Harley Davidson's grumbling up and down the winding hillside roads, perfectly smooth Tarmac under their thick tyres, I realize it has taken until now for us to even begin to relax and consider that our change in fortunes had been for the better.
They say that fortune favors the brave and time will tell whether we have been brave to continue our seasonal forays into property management.
I hope, and feel that after a cold, harsh and ultimately bitter winter, a springtime of healing and adjustment will make way for a life affirming summer.
We have already made ourselves known in the village, freeloading at a patron saints day party, meeting Frank and Inge, Canadian-Hungarians who own a beautiful house in the village, and making inroads with the local wine merchant.
We have been to St Tropez and been stung for beach furniture and cocktails and ridiculous traffic jams, and we have attempted to traverse swimming pool issues in French.
They do not teach that at GCSE level.
Natasha has even got to grips with a rotary iron as we belatedly begin cleaning the villa. Without guests of a boss on site self-motivating has proven tough here.
Who knows what the next week will bring. What I do know is that when I wake up and open the curtains I will be met with the same stunning view of the bay of st Tropez and I will smile.
Nestled just above the hillside village of La Garde Freinet, overlooking the bay where the famed port and resort of St Tropez lies some 15 km away.
Photos of the luxury villa that now lies in our charge for the next five months scarcely do it justice with it's slightly faded and crumbly terracotta walls, light blue shutters, steep layered garden and stunning views.
Yet as I lie here in the large cottage (one of three living areas on site) with the faint sound of Harley Davidson's grumbling up and down the winding hillside roads, perfectly smooth Tarmac under their thick tyres, I realize it has taken until now for us to even begin to relax and consider that our change in fortunes had been for the better.
They say that fortune favors the brave and time will tell whether we have been brave to continue our seasonal forays into property management.
I hope, and feel that after a cold, harsh and ultimately bitter winter, a springtime of healing and adjustment will make way for a life affirming summer.
We have already made ourselves known in the village, freeloading at a patron saints day party, meeting Frank and Inge, Canadian-Hungarians who own a beautiful house in the village, and making inroads with the local wine merchant.
We have been to St Tropez and been stung for beach furniture and cocktails and ridiculous traffic jams, and we have attempted to traverse swimming pool issues in French.
They do not teach that at GCSE level.
Natasha has even got to grips with a rotary iron as we belatedly begin cleaning the villa. Without guests of a boss on site self-motivating has proven tough here.
Who knows what the next week will bring. What I do know is that when I wake up and open the curtains I will be met with the same stunning view of the bay of st Tropez and I will smile.
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