Back in the olden-days, LaBu was optimized for visitor quantity, with four bedrooms, all of which at some point or another functioned as parts of a hotel or gite. We found during the course of The Changes, in addition to some truly atrocious—and at times genuinely perplexing—wall paper, little engraved plaques with ‘chambre 1, chambre 2,’ etc. screwed into place next to each bedroom door.
Those plaques, like the doors, and the bedrooms themselves, are long gone, consigned to the nether regions of the French waste management fantasyland. And we’re down to two bedrooms—the one where the proprietors crawl, aching and at times bloodied after days in the gardens (more on that later)—onto a soft bit of high-grade cotton and foam before passing out, and another, set aside for those intrepid souls that make their way past the bovine hoards to our (newly painted, burgundy) door.
And, they have, over the Spring. It has been lovely to host friends coming from Africa, Eastern Europe, and the US. I’m sure the quickly evolving and growing house wine list is a draw, but also the quietude and unpretentiousness of this part of the world. That these well-meaning, solicitous, and entertaining travelers suddenly find themselves in a big country house with an end-of-days sort of thunderstorm raging outside, and a host that hasn’t said a word to a live human in days, is to be pitied (or might be, if one discounts the wine, cheese, saucisson, slow-stewed beans, the warmth of a wood fire, and nothing but the birds to wake you). It really has been nice, the occasional rain and convoluted discourses on field mice and house cat hunting techniques aside.
With all the comings, one must also note the goings. The most significant of these was that of our dear sweet boy cat, Charlemagne. After nearly 15 years of traveling the world with us—living amongst the post-French revolutionary madness of Algeria, the post-Soviet Striving-Europeanism of Georgia, the post-revolutionary capital-capture despotisms of Northern Virginia, the post-consensus warring-identities of New Mexico, and finally (as we’d always promised him) the quiet warm of rural France— Charlie left this world. A cenotaph has been raised in his honor along the pathway he used, the one to run from the house to an outbuilding, where he could reliably expect to see some little moles or mice hanging about. LaBu is less without him. Although, his little sister has done much to fill the Charlie-Hole with her own outsized (and growing) personality.
This is the season of communal fetes and gatherings, celebrating everything from town’s founding saints’ days to Queen Elizabeth’s jubilee (yes, there are THAT many brits in these parts). Mostly it means gathering together, listening to some speeches, having a little to eat and drink, and then going home and praying you didn’t pick up covid. Lots of people are, of course, but here—as elsewhere—the effect is limited. The Fête de St Jean—which for the little town where LaBu is located is the principal local celebration—is at the end of the month.
The presidential campaign came and went here in France, with the expected result: status quo with the xenophobic populist neo-fascists gaining ground. Week after next, we have the legislative elections, which will be much more telling. We are immigrants here, and so must pay attention.
And finally, in this overly newsy update, the gardens? Yes, what about the gardens?
Well, here, dear reader, things are coming along nicely thankyouverymuch. Around the kitchen extension, we’ve laid 10 tons of hard core, with 6 tons of red cinder, three of sand, and around 1000 pebbled blocks coming along shortly. And that will be HALF of the project on the immediate south side of the house. Also, we’re building walls like the Romans after hearing a rumor of a horde of disgruntled Caledonians.
In the front of the house—toward the North—and after a rain that was like a waterfall coming down the side of a mountain (points to those who can ID that reference), we’re raising the ground by 20-something centimeters. Another 10 tons of hard core arrives on Monday. There are parts of the human body, that I’ve heard, will actually fall off at some point if we keep this up. But, still slinging stone in our fifties is something to be grateful for, and we are. That is, when the cries of anguish subside in the mornings on getting out of bed, and we can hear ourselves think.
There will be pictures next time you hear from me.
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