A Winter's Tale.

It's early December. I'm walking in the forest, resisting the urge to pick up yet more fir cones and trying not to think about the fast-dwindling amount of shopping days left 'til Christmas. The air is crisp, the sky is icy-blue and the remaining beech leaves are almost glowing with their strange luminosity. Their less fortunate, fallen compadres are satisfyingly crunchy underfoot. I really should be Christmas shopping....

Through the trees, I spy a little cabin, and can't resist making my way towards it.  There's smoke curling from the chimney but there doesn't seem to be anyone around. It looks so cosy, and I'm just about to step inside when I hear a voice... 
"Oi! What do you want?" 
"Oh sorry," I say and turning, am surprised to see that the voice is coming from a gnarly looking frog who appears to be wearing a tiny silver crown.
"Um...I was just out walking and saw this place....I was just curious.....actually, I'm trying to avoid going shopping for Christmas presents."
"Ha!" he snorted, "Look around you....gifts are everywhere"
"I don't understand?"
"You got the beautiful sky and stars above, you got the trees in all their splendour, you got the calm reflections on the lake to feast upon...that's just for starters..."
"Oh I see, I was thinking more like....something from Dixons?"
"Well, think again!.... you get to take a deep draught of that cool, clean air, feel the energising breezes, you'd even get to see the amazin' sunrises if you weren't so lazy."
"How do you know that I'm lazy?"
"Listen love, I'm a talking frog! I just know."
"But, how can I get these gifts and share them with my loved ones?"
"That's simple, you go to covertcabin.com and book 'em in. They'll even send you a gift voucher if you like."
"How wonderful! Thanks so much," I say, "I could kiss you..."

..But that's another story.....

Merry, Merry Christmas!

. 

Crabs, Concrete & Lager (three reasons to visit the Southern Seas).

A Guest Post By Our Special Atoll Correspondent.


　
Whilst trawling around on the internet recently, I chanced upon some photographs of the tiny atoll of Tematangi,  way down in the south Pacific ocean. The photos instantly reminded me that, way, way back, in another life,  I had lived there. Not for very long you understand, only a couple of months, but it now seems such a long way off (both in time & distance) that  now seems like a good time to share my strange and unique experience.

Tematangi (or Bligh's Lagoon) is "famous" for two reasons. The first is that it was discovered by Captain Bligh (of HMS Bounty fame) in 1792 whilst seeking out his mutinous crew who had holed-up somewhere amongst the Polynesian atolls & islands. The second is that it is the antipodes to Mecca, therefore the only place on earth that a Muslim could perform prayer in any direction and always be facing the holy city.
I was 22 at the time and (don't ask me how) found myself as part of a small working party of around a dozen, tasked with first digging, then laying concrete foundations and erecting various metallic buildings to be used as a weather station. To say that Tematangi is remote would be an understatement. It lies pretty much in the middle of the south Pacific ocean and it's highest point above sea level would be no more than 4 or 5 feet. As with all atolls it consists of a narrow band of sand and rock, probably no wider than a few hundred feet at it's widest, scattered with coconut palms with a deep lagoon in the middle and the wild open ocean all around you. Being close to the equator means that sun-up is around 6.00 am and sundown is around 6.00 pm, all year round. 

Tematangi shore

We arrived by ship, but there being no dock and the small issue of a treacherous coral reef surrounding the atoll, meant that we had to anchor quite a way off. We, our equipment and all of our stores had to be loaded into a large, wooden rowing boat, manned by two islanders who would, apparently,  row us over the reef in time with the ocean swell and hopefully not dash us all on the rocks. It was one of those moments in life when you have no choice other than to trust completely and implicitly the stranger your life has just been entrusted to. Needless to say, they knew exactly what they were doing and repeated the exercise many times until we and all our kit was safely ashore. I should mention though at this point that several weeks after our unforgettable arrival, whilst walking along the shore in the 40 degree heat, I chanced upon an un-opened bottle of Kronenbourg lying in the sand. This was very welcome, believe me, even if it was a bit warm. Over the following couple of days about half a crate of them had been washed ashore in total. My very own "Whiskey Galore" moment!  The beer had obviously gone over the side on some earlier arrival and was only now being given up by the ocean. How alarming that must have been for those poor workers, seeing their valuable ration of lager being swallowed up by the seas.

There was nothing really on the atoll besides some abandoned buildings and a small weather station. Once a week, the islander who ran the weather station would release one of those enormous helium balloons which would soar off on it's one way journey to the upper atmosphere. We had no electricity, we slept in a large open-ended tent, the cold showers used stored rainwater and the toilet was a shack on the beach under which we had dug a deep hole. This was also where about a million flies lived. The atoll was uninhabited, or so I thought. One morning we had gone for a run and after covering about 8kms or so came across a primitive village of around 40 people, living under palm-leaf shelters, families with small children. I was amazed. How could all of these people be living on such a tiny strip of land with no fresh water? They had come from other islands and were there to harvest the coconuts that covered the atoll. The men would climb impossibly high palm trees to hack the coconuts down which would then have their green outer shell deftly removed with a couple of machete swings and laid in heaps to dry. The by-product of this work was the valuable milk that each coconut contains. This was what they drank in place of water. When they weren't harvesting coconuts, they were paddling out to sea in their outrigger canoes (pirogues) to catch fish. These people were not just surviving, they were positively thriving. You'd be hard pushed to find a healthier looking bunch of people. Whilst we were there a Japanese ship arrived to collect their cargo and for several days the dried husks were loaded into rowing boats and ferried the half mile or so, over the reef, to be loaded into the ship's hold.


Tematangi Atoll

BinLlovin' Coconut Crab

The only other occupants on the atoll were crabs. I'd never really seen many crabs at that point in my life, just the ones you find in rock pools as a kid. I'd heard of hermit crabs, but had never actually seen one. Every night on Tematangi the hermit crabs came out and appeared to be crossing the atoll like an invading army. You could hear them moving en masse in the dark and if you walked anywhere during the invasion you would literally have to crunch your way through them, such were the number and density of them. Quite extraordinary. It was also home  to the coconut crab. Now these I had never even heard of, crabs that live in trees!   Whatever next.  They are massive and have claws that can comfortably crush bones and they also only come out at night. The islanders would catch these formidable beasts and hang them out in the sun to dry, whereupon they would be given a couple of coats of varnish and flogged off to tourists in Tahiti and Bora Bora. One of the saddest sights I saw however was a huge turtle that a couple of the islanders had caught whilst out fishing. It was dragged back to the atoll and rolled onto it's back in the baking sun and left to a similar fate as the coconut crabs. It was about the size of two bath tubs and an animal that large takes more than a little while to die, even in those conditions. The poor creature was there for days, gasping in the heat. I sat with it for a while one day, it was really distressing to see it. I remember wanting to release it, but this was how these islanders survived and it wasn't my place to tell them how to live or what was right or wrong. There's no doubt it would have been a high value item and as such would have been very important income for them. Why, you ask would they not make their end more speedy?  In order to preserve the shell intact is the answer.

In any case, no one could accuse the islanders of pillaging, as various colonial powers had already seen to that. They only took what they needed from the seas, nothing more.

The work was hard, especially in the heat. We had only two pieces of mechanical equipment; a concrete mixer and a dump truck. We made endless trips to the beach to shovel sand and gravel first into the dumper, then into the mixer. I don't know how many tonnes we mixed and laid, a couple of hundred I should think. We erected a couple of metallic buildings, something none of us had done before, but we soon got the hang of it. One of my jobs was to spray paint the buildings, green I seem to remember. Since it was so hot, only shorts & boots would ever be worn whilst working, so at the end of each day I would have to have a total body wash with diesel fuel as I was green-gloss from head to toe. On one occasion one of the guys slipped from his ladder, he wasn't very high up, 7 or 8 feet, but as he fell he caught his forearm on the corner of a metal cladding sheet and it opened his arm up like a sardine tin. I can still picture him clutching his arm and letting out a loud wailing sound whilst running off in the direction of the first-aid box, for that was all there was. He was lucky looking back on it. If he'd severed anything important it probably would have been curtains for him.
I spent many hours walking the shoreline, beachcombing. Other than the lager that washed up, I don't recall finding anything man made. The seas were heaving with life down there, I wouldn't go as far as to say that they were shark infested, but sharks of all kinds were a very common sight, occasionally catching glimpses of them as they swam through the breaking waves. Flying fish were common too and yes, they do actually fly! I've never been a keen swimmer, so it was no hardship not to go in as I'm sure it would have ended in some kind of personal tragedy.
So now, here we are, years later in deepest Dordogne, offering our punters the chance to get-away-from-it-all and asking them not to expect too much in the way of a mobile phone signal and I wonder if my south-seas adventures all those years ago may have shaped or somehow influenced the way I do things now?   Possibly.
　

We are the Champignons.

When we first came to live in these parts my French vocab was a bit limited. In addition to "pain" and "vin", another word I knew was "champignon" and I remember being amazed at how many times, when earwigging in the supermarket queue or in the bar, this one word would keep cropping up. It seemed to me that everyone was talking about mushrooms, pretty much all the time. Of course in those days, saying the word mushroom to me had me thinking 'small white buttony things in a blue barquette from Sainsbury's. I had flirted with chanterelles and shiitakes....but they were very much on the periforal edge of my culinary vision, I had no idea then that mushrooms were something of a regional, if not national, obsession, their arrival even making front page news in the local paper! http://www.sudouest.fr/2013/09/25/les-cepes-arrivent-sur-les-marches-de-dordogne-1179817-1814.php.

After a couple of years though, I started to think that there must be something in it and decided to go forth into the woods with my trusty guide book. Soon I became a convert and spent many happy hours fruitlessly foraging in the forest.

Now, the season is upon us once again and the woods are thronging with all kinds of fungi and foragers. In the normal way of things, seeing a man shuffling about on his own in the woods would activate my Weirdo Alert, but I'm now quite used to coming across them. For sure, he might give me a funny look, but that'll be because
A: I might be nicking mushrooms on his turf, or
B: He is nicking mushooms on my turf, or
C: He was just born looking funny.
Skip the Dog, who's Weirdo Alert is more finely tuned up than mine, will often spot someone ahead of me and he'll let off a warning salvo of his most fearsome barks. But the fungi hunters will barely raise their heads, such is their obsession.

Disconnected.

Bob and I are getting on a bit and remember a time before we were all constantly plugged in to cyberspace.
I'm only talking about the nineteen eighties, not the 1880's, but even so, travelling back then was a different world.
In some far flung places, I can remember having to book telephone calls back to the UK and waiting in a hot and dusty office for a slot to become available. The lines were scratchy and echoey and often overlaid by other people jabbering away in a strange tongues.


Phones, pads, & gps's have revolutionised the way we travel and I can see their advantages, especially for women travelling alone, but part of me hankers for that simpler time, when self reliance was what I relied upon and we had interesting maps to tangle up, turn upside down and ponder over and perhaps, a reason to stop and ask someone the way. I found that the people I encountered formed an important part of the journey and my experiences were certainly made richer (and sometimes a bit scarier!) by them.

Bob, on the other hand, has never, to my knowledge, asked anyone the way, ever. He once travelled the whole length of France with just the front cover torn from a map for guidance. But then, I don't suppose he was too fussed where he finally pitched up - so no problemo!


Here at the cabin in deepest Dordogneshire there's still a chance you won't get a mobile signal - we had a chap staying a while back who got a bit lost whilst out for a cycle ride - he stopped to ask a lady, who was working in her garden, the way and she and her husband then drove 50 yards or so down the road to show him ....turned out he was not that lost after all. Later, his saviours arrived at the cabin with bags of fresh garden vegetables and an invite for dinner the next day! That just doesn't happen when your head's down, staring at your device. Which just goes to show, good things may happen if you just let yourself switch off.

Are you in need of a digital detox?  Go to www.covertcabin.com
　
　
　
　
　

In The Groove.

Here at covertcabin we like to keep abreast of modern technologies and so when the opportunity arose to purchase a "portable, lightweight music player with no need of batteries or charger, in its own faux leather carrying case" naturally we jumped at the chance and snapped one up on-line.  Admittedly, the parcel that duly arrived was slightly larger than we'd anticipated but we now find ourselves the proud owners of a state-of-the-art Decca 66...

Not entirely by coincidence we had recently acquired a collection of old 78's, which was lucky for us, as our device did not seem to have a docking station for our pods or any slots for sticks or cards.  We spent a rainy afternoon washing the dusty old discs and marvelling at the wondrous titles: "While I Was Holding My Coconut", "He Played His Ukelele As The Ship Went Down", and the sexist classic " Why Did I Marry My Wife?" and whilst we did so Bob, whose depths of obscure knowledge are unfathomable, explained all about 78's, 45's, rpm's and why the modern day single is invariably a maximum of 3 minutes long. My mind wandered a little as he continued on about groove widths, rotational speeds and fidelity, those of a techy/nerdy disposition can read more about that stuff here http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gramophone_record Not now though, later.....lest you become forever lost in Linkland. 

Next day was the first truly hot day of Summer and even though I have been slightly moany about the sun's poor show so far, by mid afternoon I was, contrarily, too hot and slunk off to the shade.  Under the trees with a couple of cool beers we wound up the Decca 66 and listened to some strains from old refrains - a very pleasant interlude indeed...

Fancy spinning some discs yourself?  The Decca 66 and a wide selection of 78's are recently installed down at Woodsman's cabin.

Hear what you like - when you like

Plonk

 

                                                                                                 

 





Fancy a sundowner? at www.covertcabin.com/poachers.html

Having lived here in France for a number of years I have undoubtedly picked up a few French habits.  My consumption of garlic and goat's cheese are up, for sure and my Mum once reprimanded me over an irritating Gallic style shrug that I had unknowingly developed.  Some things remain mysterious though.  I've never enjoyed playing Pétanque or felt the urge to hurl my duvet out of the window on a fine day... or even overtake on a blind bend. When it comes to speaking French I happily babble away, using perhaps only three of the many possible tenses available to me.  I'll never be mistaken for a native, or at least, so I thought. 

 

 

One day, in a local supermarket I was waylaid by a chap who was selling wine.  He made it himself, locally and had somehow managed to wangle a pitch in the store.  We chatted for a bit about the wine and stuff.  He made his wine from the Gamay grape which always tastes sharp, with a hint of worn socks to me.  In a bid to avoid the imminent tasting I was going to have to endure I told him I much preferred beer and then he said... 

" You have an accent particulier, Madam?"
"Yes, I'm English."
"Oh I thought you must be from Brittany" 

This, I now realise, was French code for "I thought you must be from Mars" as Brittany is the furthest place away imaginable to a lot of locals who are not well travelled but I was secretly chuffed about his comment and bought two bottles, even though, I have to say, the wine was quite ghastly.  Only on the way home did I begin to suspect that perhaps he had flattered to deceive!







A Tale of Two Tails - Guest Post by Pops the Cat....

"Mutual understanding is at the heart of any good relationship.  Often, we misread the signs others give out and misinterpret their intentions and that's when problems can arise".  This was how my 'Mistress' explained it to me when I had to have yet another swipe at that damn dawg.  But when I sees 'im gaily wagging his great black brush of a tail I don't see it as sign of friendliness at all, but more like the angry switch that I am quite fond of doin'.  And when Skip hears the audible thump of my tabby tail on the rug he dimly perceives a happy-go-lucky little friend who'll be delighted to see 'im, when in fact, nothing could be farther from the truth.  She's only tryin' to help us get along better, but I think the best thing would be to cut 'is tail orf.  Snip, snip.  Voila! Problem solved.

Rocks

We have long known about the existence of a large group of standing stones near to Fisherman's Cabin, but despite several attempts to locate them, until quite recently, their exact whereabouts remained elusive.  They are called Roches Eyzides.  Once, we found some coordinates on a dusty looking french website and set off to where we thought they must be, but these just led us to a field with some angry looking cows in and so we shuffled off home dejectedly.  Finally, I was driven to do the one thing that Bob says we must never do when lost, and that is to ASK SOMEONE!  And within seconds the mystery was solved and the location revealed.

The legend goes that a shepherd tending his flock was being menaced by a wolf.  He asked the genies or spirits of the forest for help but they were powerless against the wolf and so, after a bit of a conflab, decided the best thing would be to turn him and his sheep to stone.  Thanks for that you spirits, that's very helpful.

So now, standing an impressive six metres high, here is the petrified shepherd, and his stony flock are spread around and about him in the forest.  It's a great place for a walk or a picnic, just take no notice of any menacing wolves and, whatever you do, don't call upon the woodland spirits.

Lost.

Sometimes when I'm out walking with Skip the Dog it's easy to lose track of time and indeed my location.  I am wandering along the many woodland tracks and trails and my mind is also on the roam.  I should be considering the great issues of our age, like what to do about Palestine, but more than likely I'm thinking shallow stuff like what sort of cake I should bake and whether I've put the dishwasher on. Suddenly it'll occur to me that I don't actually know where I am and a prickle of panic will rise.  Not that I'm going to be so lost I can't find my way home, I don't walk fast so I can't have covered too much ground, however these trails and trees can all look the same.  Skip's no help - although he likes to lead out on the walk he has no clue where we're supposed to be going and when a 'junction' approaches he'll invariably find something really interesting on the ground that requires his detailed investigation.  Once I've turned left or right he'll then rush forward again to take up his default pacesetter position. 

One such evening, I found myself adrift in the wood as the sun was going down.  Suddenly, the benign forest took on an eerier feel, there was the screech of a buzzard overhead and we heard a mystery animal crash through the undergrowth a little way off.  Skip thought about giving chase but then looked at me with a 'WTF was that?' expression and we drew close.  I stopped and tried to get my bearings, then decided the best thing to do would be to head for the fast fading light.  I quickened my pace and stomped through the bush, brambles snagging my progress as we blazed a trail to who knew where?  After a couple of minutes I thought I caught a glimpse of a clearing ahead and then we tumbled out of the forest right onto the bank of the lake at Woodsman's cabin.  I was amazed at how I could have been so close to home and yet apparently so lost and was relieved to be back on familiar territory.  Skip ran on ahead as though he'd known the way all along and had bravely led us to salvation and we trundled off home through the gathering gloom.

A Tale of Two Sapins

Mountain Man was really called Pierre, but we called him Mountain Man because, well, he looked like he lived up a mountain, possibly in a cave. In the early days, MM would often pop by our house whenever he felt that our beer fridge needed emptying or our Ricard bottle was just too full and through clouds of Gitane scented smoke would regale us with his tales of 'derring do'. One night, just before Christmas, he joined us for a bit of a party. He arrived, already somewhat the worse for wear and seemed to take exception to what I took to be a prefectly sized Christmas tree which sat twinkiling prettily in the corner of the room. ' Ca...' MM waved his finger in the general direction of my tree as he strived to stay upright, '....ca, c'est pas un sapin de Noel' A short time later he was seen roaring off in his battered peugeot. The evening and the alcohol wore on and I started to think that maybe he'd slunk off home to sleep things off, but soon we heard a screech of brakes outside, followed by the whine of a chainsaw and then the door burst open and in staggered MM partially concealed beneath the fronds of an almighty Christmas tree. The beast was somehow shoved in through the door and my tree was unceremoniously cast to one side as he attempted to install it. Saws, nails and drills were produced and he fashioned a makeshift stand and then it was hauled, albeit at a slightly alarming angle, into place. Clearly a 'glass half full' kind of chap, MM saw no disadvantage to the tree being about a foot taller than the ceiling and cunningly screwed right through the top branch into my newly decorated ceiling beams to hold the thing in place. "Ca!, ca, c'est un vrai sapin de Noel" he leered. And I had to concur - it was a magnificent tree and the fact that we could no longer use a significant part of our sitting room was of no consequence.

Next day, I drove sheepishly through the village expecting to see a neighbour scratching his head by a newly-sawn stump of his much prized spruce. But no victim was ever found. I miss those days in a way, but we do have the hole in the ceiling and our Mountain Man Christmas decoration to remind us.

Upcycling....and Cruelty to Knitwear.

WARNING! This blog contains themes of a folksy, thrifty, 'make do and mend' nature which some readers may find upsetting. If you find that kind of thing too sickly, look away now. 

It's inspired by a recent visit from 'Country Living' magazine who (I will casually mention) are going to be featuring Woodsman's cabin in an upcoming edition.  I was browsing their website in preparation for their visit and that's where I saw the idea.....

Every winter, we get a nice cosy jumper each, and every year I end up shrinking them in the wash.  Some last longer than others, but this is merely a stay of execution - I know that sooner or later, their fate will be the same.  I'm not sure why this keeps happening - one reason is that I really hate hand washing.  My Mum used to do my hand washing.  I never asked her to, she would just cast a weary eye over the pile festering away on my washing machine, break out the Woolite and then hey presto! it would be done and out, swinging on the line in the sunshine.  Sadly, my Mum passed away about 10 years ago, so, as you can imagine,  I now have quite a backlog.  They hang around and hang around until finally, one day I crack and shove them all in the machine.  Another reason is the machine itself.  Although it purports to be German, it refuses to conform to any national stereotype and will randomly throw in a boil wash or a manic spin cycle when I least expect it.  So one way or another - I've got a pile of ruined jumpers, suitable only for Lilipution jockeys and so that's why I was delighted to find I could 'upcycle' them.

I hesitate for quite a while before applying the scissors - it seems wrong somehow.  Steeling myself, I take one last squeeze and hug of the old friends and then dive in. 

A short time later I have acquired a (slightly utilitarian looking - would look good in any bomb shelter) hot water bottle cover (I had to turn this one inside out as it had also been a victim of paint crime) and a splendid cushion.  This is great, I can't wait for the next boilwash now.

Hierarchy.

Now that Skip the Dog has come along to mess everything up, Pops the Cat has had to revise her thoughts re: the hierachy in her household...

Pops thinks:
Cat,
Bob,
Me,
Dog.

Bob thinks:
Bob,
Cat,
Me, (phew, just scraped in there!)
Dog

I think:
Bob and I are equals (but some are more equal than others) Cat & Dog.

Dog thinks: Hierwarky? Wot's a heirwarky?? I dunno! Why can't we all just love each other?

Cabin Chic - How one girl kicked the Ikea habit.

Woodsman's cabin

A while back, a cabinaute staying at Woodsman's cabin commented that our bright red bedspread was the same Ikea model as she had at home.  She'd just been to visit a friend in Australia who owned the same Ikea lamp as her.  We both decided right there and then that this global decorating thing should stop and that we'd never darken their stylish Swedish doors again.  I have to admit that I have lapsed on a couple of occasions since then, but I'm determined to put it behind me and search for more original alternatives.  

Our cabins' decor is inspired somewhat by my childhood fascination with the likes of Heidi and Little House on the Prairie on TV.  On one hand I was repelled by the cutesy, cloying sweetness, on the other hand I'm a sucker for a lofty bedroom you reach via a steep ladder and/or a hatch.  Anyway, I didn't get to watch these programmes much because my big brother would insist on watching Whacky Races or something, (which, secretly, was fine with me). Something must have stuck though, because I find I have a weakness for checks and polka dots when I think I should be buying the cool taupe alternative..... It's a fine line, I know. I sometimes go over the edge!  Luckily, we have a rich source of inspiration in the form of the many Brocantes and 'vide greniers' that take place regularly. There're plenty of hidden gems in amongst many items of dubious taste, and I've recently discovered that if I pop into my favourite brocante after lunch, when the Patron appears to have partaken in a few litres of red, he's much more amenable to a good deal.  Let the shopping commence....

Cabin Cake

All those free blackberries have been ripening in the hot August sunshine and are ready to be plucked.  It's a tricky business. The bestest, biggest, fattest ones are seemingly always just out of reach.  You're going to need a crooked stick for hoiking them out and to not mind getting stung, pricked and inky stained fingers (or just wear gloves if you're sensible/wimpish). But it'll be worth the effort...I have been dreaming of blackberry jams and jellies and pear and blackberry pies - but one of my favourite things to make is Cabin Cake:

It's simple to make and so delicious......

　



CABIN CAKE
2 large or 3 small apples (scrumped if possible)

225g butter at room temperature

280g caster sugar

350g self raising flour

4 eggs

plus a handful of blackberries & some demerara sugar for sprinkling.

　

　

Line a roasting tin (roughly 22 x 25cm) with baking paper, fire up the oven to 160°/gas mark 3.

Bung the butter, sugar, flour and eggs into a bowl and mix until well combined.

Peel and slice the apples, rinse and dry the blackberries.

Place half the cake mix in the tin, spread over half the apple slices and fruit. Top with remaining cake mix, then rest of the apple & fruit. Sprinkle with demerara sugar.

Bake for 30-45 mins or until a sharp knife in the centre comes out clean.
　
This obviously makes a giant cake so bear to share, or you can halve the quantities if you so wish.
This recipe was created by my friend Jo Marshall at http://www.tribalholiday.com/

　

From Wags to Riches? (Part 1)

Generally speaking, I can divide people into two groups, Cat people and Dog People.   Dog people will often keep a cat but rarely will cat people keep a dog.  We are Cat people.  I do like dogs but I don't want one.  (Actually, Bob divides people into two other groups, Lift Takers and Stair Walkers.... he is obviously a stair walker, I am secretly a lift taker but will often take the stairs to show willing!  That's if it's a low-ish storey building I mean, not 'The Shard', obviously.)  Anway, we had a call from our guests down at Fisherman's cabin to say that a puppy had turned up there the previous night, he showed no signs of moving on and was driving them crazy with his whining. He had also destroyed the saddle from one of our hire bikes.  I set off to investigate and found the little lad in the lane leading to the cabin - he was limping, had no collar or ID and seemed totally delighted to meet me.  I opened the car door and he hopped in as if he'd been waiting for me to collect him.  I headed up to the local village and he settled down for a well earned snooze while I asked a few locals if they'd ever seen him or heard of anyone who'd lost a pup.  Blanks all round , no one knew him.  I met an elderly couple who had an even more elderly dog in their garden (called Cybil, I later learned) and asked if I could borrow a lead and a collar so that I could take him to the vet to see if he was microchipped.  This being lunchtime in France though, the vet was closed and so I faced the prospect of returning home with the dog to Cat Person Bob and slightly frosty Pops the cat.  I explained my dilemma to the elderly couple and they said they'd happily keep him over lunchtime.  They would phone round and see if anyone they knew had heard tale of him.  Back home, I explained the whole histoire to Bob and the cat.  'No, No, absolutely not!' they said, 'we can't have a dog here for the following reasons etc; etc;' and I totally agreed with them.

 After lunch I collected the pest from the M et Mme.  'Oh! but he's a lovely little dog' they said.  Apparently he had slept under the table with his head on Monsieur's feet while they ate. 'Tell us who you are' pleaded Mme, as she tickled his tummy.  But they couldn't keep him, what with Cybil being epileptic and so on...  At the vets, no microchip was found.  He showed me that Dog was limping because his pads were red raw from too much walking (Ping! sound of heart string twanging.) I found myself buying expensive flea and tic treatment.  He said I was to contact the Marie about him.  But this being Monday in France, the Marie was closed!  I called in at the Mayor's house and his daughter phoned the Gendarmes for me - apparently nothing could be done until the next day when the Marie would contact the SPA to see if he'd been reported missing. I called the SPA, but this being Monday in France....you get the picture, it became clear that I was going to have to keep the damn dog overnight, and so I steeled myself for breaking the news to the others....

So what becomes of the poor little orphan pup?- tune in next week to find out!!

From Wags to Riches? (Part II)

Pops the Cat

As told by Pops the Cat.....  "So, she turns up with this ugly mug dawg in tow - I'm out mousin' in the field and I hear the kerfuffle and sidle over to see what's afoot.  Both of 'em have gone all gooey over this dawg - even my Master who, just hours earlier, had said it would never happen.  They don't even really like dawgs.  I slink off upstairs - they bring me up some of my Dreamies treats so I know they're trying to get round me - I can't believe they're gonna let 'im stay.  She prints off some 'Chien Trouvé' posters with 'is gormless little mug on and I keep my claws crossed that someone'll claim 'im.  They call 'im 'Skippy'. Barf. A few days later, he's still here and so I decide it's time to lay down a few ground rules.  The first thing I do is, I go and take a sniff and a lick of his food bowl - he just whimpers and lays down flat so then I drink from his water bowl and he doesn't seem to mind that either.  Dawgs are weird - stupid.  He wants to be friends and comes up close so I give him a well placed cuff across the nose and he backs off,  all meek like.  I s'pose he's all right in small doses.  He'll soon learn I run a fairly tight ship 'round here.  And, he keeps the neighbour's cats at bay. So if there is anything good to be said for keeping a dawg - that'll be it.

Skip the Dog

What The Flock?

One day, we got talking to a local farmer who was bemoaning the fact that sheep's skins are practically worthless.  No one wanted to buy them from him so he ended up burning them - a sorry waste of a wonderful natural rescource.  Bob, whose thoughts at the time were being filtered through the green, green glass of several empty heineken bottles, started thinking that we could do with some nice sheepskin rugs for the shepherd's hut and, undeterred by the unknown complications of the tanning process, arranged to take ownership of the fleeces once these poor beasts had been slaughtered. 



Off Bob went to collect his grisly cargo of six sheepskins.  On his return, I was alarmed to see that there heads were still attached.  Apparently that was fine though, because he also had in mind some kind of sheep skull sculpture!  Some internet research had revealed to him the rudimentary basics of tanning and despite the freezing temps outside he set about Step 1, the arduous task of scraping the skin of all visible fat.  This proved to be a longer and more laborious job than first imagined.  I then discovered that Step 2 was to 'just pop the (stinking, daggy, muddy) thing into the washing machine on a wool cycle' and so, sadly, as you may imagine, an impasse between us was reached. 

The skin hung around for a few weeks while other options were explored.  I asked in the local pharmacy for some 'Alum' but left empty handed after being given the looks they reserve for would-be terrorists popping in for large quantities of peroxide.  Meanwhile the sheepheads were strung up in the woods so that nature could take it's course and remove the skin and stuff.  A high jumping/pole-vaulting fox must have carried a couple off, but the rest remained for quite some time - I had to keep reassuring cabin guests that they had not stumbled across some dark satanic ritual. 

Its a shame, we never did get around to finishing our sheepskins - bits of them are still floating around in our garden - the birdies take tufts of it home for their nests. Oh, but the skulls have come up nicely and are awaiting glorification!

Greener Than Green

It's been raining relentlessly now for about two weeks and the normal order of things has been restored.  The veggie patch has turned from dry barren wilderness to bog and my bike is still sulking, damply, in the corner. Last week there was a brief respite when it was dry enough to venture forth and so I set off to see Bob, who is working a few kilometres away on the top secret "Project X".  Desperate to distract myself from creaking knees and wheezing lungs as I pedalled up a seemingly endless hill, I began to marvel at the many wonderous shades of green the springtime produces.  The new beech leaves are so green they have an almost hallucinogenic quality, especially when contrasted against the dark and stormy skies. Or maybe, that was the lunch of wild mushrooms on toast. Or, lack of oxygen to the brain due to the exertion. Anyway, also showing off this week are the first of the hedgerow wild flowers: cowslips, bluebells, spurges and campions, brightening up the dullest of days...pretty but brazen. However, my personal favourites are the shy, retiring, lovely little violets....

Spring Is The New Summer.

During last month's 'vague froid',  I became aware of a recently acquired need I have developed to check the thermometre.  It wasn't good enough for me to know it was cold, I wanted to know just how bloody cold exactly.  I think it must be a middle-aged thing, like hoarding sugar and knowing the price of diesel at three different locations.  Similarly, this week my eye has been drawn to the mercury again as it rises to ridiculous highs for March.  We've been basking in the glorious early twenties and yesterday, it hit 25°!  This is great news for our first cabinautes of the season who arrived last weekend and have been lunching and lightly toasting out on the rafts, but it's worrying from a water shortage point of view and for the poor neglected veggie patch.  Still, the matter is out of my hands so I will try not to dwell on it, or how Mother Nature might be planning on paying us back later in the year.  She's clearly off her rocker at the moment.

So,  it's all systems go here - Spring has sprung and there's grass to be mown and brambles tackled before they take over.  Still time to sit and admire a primrose or two though.....  But wait, is that my bike I see glaring at me, having been ignored all Winter?  Oh Lordy, it's going to be so hard getting back into the saddle after months of sloth, so here's a reminder to my complaining thighs and lungs as to why we must love our bicycle!

http://www.covertcabin.com/

Thawsome!

It's February and so technically still Wintertime, but it's icy charms are beginning to pall now and I'm really looking forward to the Spring.  The snow and ice have been great, but with temperatures well below or around freezing for a couple of weeks it was all getting a bit tiresome.  I wonder how the peoples of the Frozen North cope?  The lakes were frozen solid and I was oh so tempted to step out onto them and go for a skate.  I know, I know, that'd be a mad and dangerous thing to do, but still....  Bob offered to shove me out in the boat and I excitedely imagined whizzing across the ice like a human puck, but then he didn't seem to have made any provision for my safe return to shore so I had to reluctantly decline....



No Fishing, No Human Pucks



Great weather for spotting wildlife though, lots of hungry little birds deciding to take the risk and come a bit closer than normal to us, maybe preferring our company to a hen harrier (I think it was..)  and a splendid fox with a great bushy tail who we spotted slinking about in the forest.   We saw plenty of deer, and their tracks in the snow were everywhere, right up to the door of the cabin.   Now, the ice is finally melting and cracking, splintering noises can be heard echoing eerily across the lake.   It feels, almost, like Spring is on it's way, Yay!



Snowy Deer (Use yer bino's - it's there somewhere!)