On our anniversary, I was a herder of logs and mushrooms

The funny thing is that, him indoors didn't forget our anniversary.  Maybe he had been forewarned by a mysterious entity (you know who you are), or  he had read the arcane signs of a possibly tricky situation, in the flights of birds or in the entrails of the dead rodents the cats leave strewn around.  The fact remains he remembered and that's all that matters. 


The long awaited rain  followed by some short lived sunshine, brought out rings of plump field mushrooms (rosés des près, agaricus campestris) in the field at the back of the house. Harvesting them in the warm midday light  was just pure joy, a feeling of achievement and fulfillment that was made complete by the cooking of a big omelet, having first fried the mushrooms in "beurre d'escargots" (snails butter= garlic and parsley).  I used a trick my god-father gave me and which is totally waistline unfriendly but so delicious...add tiny bits of butter to your eggs whilst whisking.  That's it, nothing else but believe me, it will transmute your omelet!

Him indoors and I, some years ago, ate in la mère Poulard  in  Mont Saint-Michel (famous through out France for her over priced but delicious omelet) and he swore mine was better! I know flattery when I hear it but I have to admit that, that last one, with our own maverick mushrooms, was a bloody fine thing and I have no reason to doubt his sincerity...though in all fairness to Madame Poulard her souffléed and flambéed omelet with apples caramelised in calvados was a thing of great beauty which still has me drooling years later.

Meanwhile back on the range, the rest of the champignons were threaded and hung above the cooker to dry. A process that should take a few more days.  I have plans to preserve in oil the Pieds Bleus (blue feet?) that took over the lawn last winter, as soon as they make an appearance.

I also intend to eventually, track the elusive girolles, chanterelles, pieds de mouton and lentins  in the woods. whilst he dreams that Dougal is going to find truffles (now, I doubt that somehow).  I have spotted some puff balls which were still very tiny but I keep hoping to find one of those legendary ones that can feed a family of ten for a couple of years...ok slight exaggeration...but I have seen photos of ones that grew to be the size of footballs.
In my youth in the Ubaye valley, I did a lot of mushroom picking petits gris, sang du Christ. The whole spirit of gathering , was one of secrecy, whether it was lilly of the valley, genepy or sanguins, everyone had their territory accessed by ever changing paths.  There was an old  woman called Marcelle Morin, a bit of a witch and she knew all the best places, les coins à morilles.  There was good money in those mushrooms and my best friend's father, a lazy good for nothing ,  encouraged us children, to follow her discreetly and find her secret patches.  The old one must have been wise to his game and ours, for she took us up and down the pastures, in circles, time after time and  we never found a single one.  Some years later,Marcelle, a true Bas Alpine as tough and dried as the slopes of the Gaudissart, died, despite being courted by many, without revealing her secret.  Despite her destitute appearance and lifestyle, she died a millionaire, the richest single woman in the valley.  Not just from the morels, I guess.  There was some whispers of darker stuff too.  Still,  somewhere on the sunny slope of the Ubaye valley, is a field which would bring tears of joy to the eyes of the local restaurateurs.


But enough about miscellaneous mycology.   In the absence of him indoors who was doing very important stuff, like selling a kidney to keep us on the sweet side of the bank manager, I took the initiative and was off in the setting sun, to make a wood pile... and lo and behold I don't think I did so bad...As a matter of fact I am rather chuffed with my efforts.

All in all it was a great day,  a fruitful day which gave me a taste of what life is going to be when we can dedicate all our time to this way of life we have chosen. I can't wait.  I guess that's what this anniversary was really about, living the dream after all and in spite of all. We are blessed.

Lisnagun*

Tomorrow, Him indoors and I, will be celebrating the 19 th anniversary of our first kiss.  The chances are, that he will have forgotten, like he has forgotten many things including the date of our wedding anniversary and the exact type of saucisson I like.  He hasn't forgotten though, that 17 years ago, after he had driven me insane with playing the same phrase on the tin-whistle for  weeks ( I think they did some thing similar at the siege of Wacco) I referred to the said tune as "this silly little tune"...Ouch... I have apologized on a weekly base since, but he still bears the scars of my cruelty and his ego has never recovered ( ok, maybe it has but just a tiny bit).  My thoughtlessness is  paraded at the forefront of any sprouting row.  It is his universal excuse for just about any trespasses from his poor record on  socks to...mmm...let me see.. O yeah...forgetting anniversaries.

Anyway this year I will take it bravely and not over react.  Instead I shall remember that November night, when I took him, after far too many tequilas in Pa's, to visit Lisnagun, an early medieval settlement in West-Cork which was still being excavated.  Whether I  slid down  the earthen embankment graceful as a gazelle or, tumbled down drunkenly,  making outrageous claims such as : trust me I am a mountain climber,  depends on whose version you're listening to.  This is mine, so trust me, I AM a moutain climber.

I showed him around the wattle huts that were being reconstructed, I think he said something  relevant about medieval history,  the moon was but a nacred sliver...I said kiss me, he said are you sure?
At this point I have to add that he was, at the time doing a thesis for his master's in music and that the subject of his thesis was my then husband.   So, I  suppose, it was reasonable for him, to question the wiseness of this course of action.
Anyway, he did kiss me and that was the sweetest, tenderest, most beautiful kiss I ever had.  I fell in love immediately, left my husband two days later and  never looked back.
It's been anything but easy, especially the early days.  Our relationship did untold damage to his career as a musician. We had to fight some powerful demons (one day I'll write about them) together and we lost so much along the way, friends mostly.  But he has been a great father to our children solid and present (though he was but a child of 22 when  we first met and I, a brazen hussy, 11 years his senior) and to me, he as been the kindest, funniest and most wonderful lover.
19 years on, we are still in love, fusional and mad...
We live in the woods , under a silver moon" drinking each others 
 shadow"**

*Lisnagun, a tune he composed, has since become a bit of a classic in Irish music.  www.myspace.com/brendanringuilleannpipes  

** fabulous image from John's Spillane's cd "The Wells of the World" on which Him indoors played .

The gates were between worlds were opened

How could Saimhain have been anymore perfect?
As night fell, so did the fog, blanketing all in a milky glare. I walked under the opalescent moonlight, up to the big oak tree, followed by Squigz who mewed and rubbed against my legs, as a perfect witch's cat should.  No one else, no dog, no husband, just the night charged to the brim with souls and spirits and I felt I belonged and always had.

Hot on the range

Big day yesterday, the range/cooker got lit for the first time! It provides us in theory with warm radiators and hot water as well as cooking facilities. It is a thing of great beauty fueled by the wood from our land and there is a lot of it, fallen or already cut by the previous occupant. It's so plentiful, I reckon it will be a while before we have to chop down any tree. The fact is the infamous Monsieur P...and his acolyte, did quite a lot of damage, stripping bare a large portion of ground. It looks awful now and I am wondering should I plant some sapplings or let the forest rejuvenate itself?
Anyway, more about the cooker, the plumber and envoy of the Gods Monsieur Ad, realized after having lit a nice big fire, that he had forgotten to fit in a thermostat- No worries back tomorrow with one. We caressed the copper pipes and radiators with parental pride, toasted some bread, delighted on just staring at the thing, and restocked the fire...and all hell broke loose!
An infernal racket ensued, a crescendo of clanging and rattling worthy of a highly qualified demoniac entity, boiling water spouting from somewhere under the roof and Himindoors deciding it's a good time to say he doesn't understand the laws of physics, pressure and steam engines and that I am not being very clear as to why we can't switch the pump off.
Himindoors is a strange being, he can make highly sophisticated musical instruments and play them like an angel but he cannot do or conceive anything slightly practical. Something no doubt,  I should have taken into consideration when he suggested over a year ago now, that we dropped out of the system as much as is possible and lived a self-sufficient lifestyle. His efforts in the creation of a composting toilets and a compost bin alone, are worthy of a separate blog. 
The two photos on the right are ample proof that there is a Doctor Jekyll and Mister Hyde force at work there and that the sheer mention of DIY affects his personality and looks!
I remember that in our "courting days" in the last century, I found him living in the dark in his squalid bedsit on Wellington road (best thing to do probably ) for a week, because he didn't know how to change a bulb...Nothing has changed much since. I stubornly insists that if he can make uilleann pipes he can probably hang a picture or put up a shelf, thus we live in a world of half finished, rickety constructions and I dream of a "storage system" which wouldn't be the ironing board (which also doubles or trebles as a cat's bed ...not good for black clothing as both feline occupiers are cream coloured).   
Taking anything from the metal shelves in" the pantry" has to be done with as much care as if handling nitroglycerin or else the whole construction slides to the left before collapsing on itself, an experience Monsieur Ad is familiar with, he suggested that Himindoors should be bolting the whole thing to the wall ...that was a month ago...
Anyway .... maybe...today...the elusive multi-talented Monsieur Ad, will come back with the thermostat and life will be a little less scary and maybe even warmer .

Breakfast is a time fraught with dangers

The field is silvered with dew and a white, clean light is streaming in through the french doors opaqued by grime and splashes of lime. I did wash them last week but I am fighting a losing battle against Dougal the giant Leonberger puppy and the general state of decay of the place.

Him indoors, the mystic, is doing his Kundalini yoga practice. His nights are filled with meaningful dreams and visions of Sri Yantra. Me, at best, I dream that Eric Cantona is in love with me. How spiritual is that! I have tried and will again no doubt, to do half and hour of meditation and some arcane excercise, that he swears will keep me young. Too late for that me old flower!
Breakfast since giving up coffee which was bad for Himindoors third eye, consists of chicory and some infuriating but delicious toasts briochés. Infuriating because you have to butter them with the delicate dexterity of an explosives expert or they break to smithereens and even with the softest hand, you risk ending up with a plateful of crumbs if your butter isn't at room temperature and it goes without saying, not the room temperature we have here during the winter months, which on a good day, is slightly colder than the fridge.
But this said if you have made it to the table unijured byDougal's affectionate display, you are doing very well indeed. Usually he hurls his 6o kilos at me on the stairs (which are outside with no railing or bannister) I suspect some sort of an attempted coup. He is the Tonton- macout to the cats Junta and I alone, stand between them and complete power.
It's like living with a teenage brontosaurus with attitude. His head being well above the level of the table, it takes enormous concentration to hang on to one's breakfast, any slip of attention results invariably in the gulping down of your toasts. Combine that with having to strategically reposition your cup constantly to avoid the bits of plaster that fall off the ceiling while Himindoors is pirouetting his way to Nirvana and the assault of 3 felines looking for seconds and you have an idea of how dangerous breakfast is.
I think I'll go back to bed!

Bohemian

So now that I have picked La Bohème as my blog title, where do I go?
First I have to say that I regret bitterly having very poor typing skills, a tiny keyboard and stumpy fingers, it makes blog writing a slow and awkward experience, not to mention the yankee doodle spell-check which constantly draws irate red lines under my words because I use British spelling. At the best of times, I am unsure of my spelling in English as my "français" still lurks in the background (be reassured, my spelling is equally bad in French) so I am constantly having to refer to the dictionary and I am starting to wonder if this blogging lark was a good idea in the first place?
La Bohème, not the opéra but the lifestyle...Here we go...The subject came up in the blog of an Australian artist and trying to answer her is what got me on this site in the first place. So thank you me ol'flower you know who you are!
I guess I am a Bohemian. I am excentric, reasonably creative with a lack of concern for conventions and a strong distaste for the system. I write and paint, have got too many cats, a rundown house and a talented husband much younger than me : a bit over-qualified wouldn't you say ?
I aspire to live in a yurt or a vardo screaming with colour and wear nothing but white flowing clothes, long silk scarves and heavy Berber jewellery. Yes I hear you say - probably not the most practical of attire when you live in a wagon, and you're right and maybe it' s that stubborn disregard for reality that qualifies me to belong to the tribe.
An ambiguous sexuality such as Colette's or Dali's Gala is also pre-requisite for Bohemians but it can be replaced by an all consuming monogamy which is equally disturbing for non Boh's.
A fondness for the Arcane Arts and mysticism is more authentically Boh than rationalism and atheism. But there are no rules of course, that's the rule. For me it's mostly about Creativity...that of Art but also that which imbues one's life and unites us ultimately to all creation.