Change of weather

Snow arrived last night in our part of France. It came in a quick heavy flurry and this morning had been joined by a dense mist. We strode out to take photographs. It was like shooting a reel of Ilford monochrome film. Only the téléscopique, inactive as the workmen mixed another batch of cement, injected any colour into the views. Small birds – tits and the like - that we rarely see close to the house, picked at tree bark, trying to get our attention like shy girls in a bar.

The snow melted soon enough. The fields are already regaining their colour. To stand in a copse of douglas firs, hoping for some strong sunlight to fall on a calendar view, was to get a thorough soaking.

The Workmen gear up

The site has been a bustle of activity. One truck brought breeze blocks for the rebuilding of our freshly demolished wall; another truck arrived to take away the large JCB; and another, smaller JCB (called by locals a téléscopique or Manitou) materialised.

The Builders have Arrived

We've just been woken up to the sound of workmen fitting a hose pipe to our outside tap. The construction (as opposed to the destruction) has begun. That we did not hear them arrive is testimony to the after-effects of local wines... Robert and Gilles have introduced themselves to us and immediately got to work on this grey, but dry, day. Rebuilding the wall demolished last week will be an early job. We're so excited!

Georges, our neighbour, continues to bring us welcome supplies of fresh eggs. The yolks are so intensely yellow, that Yorkshire puddings made by Di last night looked like she'd added a dollop of turmeric.

Work has begun

This pic shows the huge trench dug out of the hard, hard, granite rock by the terrassiers Even their giant earth mover has struggled with the job. Our house is built on this stuff and is a cause of concern for the builder.

The picture was taken while the workmen are taking their lunchtime break. It is said, by the locals as well as we incomers, that French artisans are notoriously unreliable about time-keeping. Yet, at 12 o'clock, they are the model of punctuality. You can't always depend on the chimes of the village church but you could set your watch by the mid-day rush hour.

Well, the work has begun! For the past two days the terrassier has done the heavy duty stuff: pulling down a wall that was too weak, excavating some granite rock that resided in what will be our lounge; and generally moving huge amounts of soil and debris. Our land looks like a quarry!

The locals stand in the road to watch, looking like supporters at a poorly-attended but eventful football match. One edge of their village is getting a long overdue make-over. They've got something to report back to their spouses when the dog has been walked. And they know the workmen.

We are expecting the maçon (builder) to begin his work tomorrow. He is local too. He is one of five men called Dargaud who live in the next village. We have only one Dargaud in our village - and he is rather proud of that.