God,...the difference from Sweden - beautiful and striking as Sverige is. Natural warmth and sunshine sure beats snow and minus temps anytime. I'm beginning to get used to the differences but still use Swedish as a fall-back language. Must be puzzling the Hell out of the locals, even though I am more comfortable and understand and speak French with greater fluency! Life can be decidedly odd and surprising at times, I still find!
Around here there are countless lakes and fishing holes. On the outskirts of the village itself there is a thing (not yet sure quite what) called 'Pescalis'. Roads and roadsigns seem to converge on it and it seems to indicate a major fishing area.
Fairly quiet this afternoon
I assume it is Carp fishing - much beloved by UK anglers with huge rods and maggoty-feed throwing contraptions. I'm told it is a major venue for their ilk - whatever that may be!
Around us in Sweden, we had countless lakes with fishing of most kinds available: trout fly; spinning; trolling; course of most kinds - but no Carp that I know of - and huge Pike, of a size that would make a UK pike-man's eye water and lead to repeated wet-dreams. Rolf once came banging at the door one morning, about 07:00 - rather optimistically, I might add - to give me a fish he'd just caught. He then heaved a huge Pike from the boot of his car, handed it to me and drove off home. I slung it onto the kitchen worktop and went back to bed, assuming it to be dead. Instead, when I resurfaced a few hours later, I was horrified to find the poor thing gasping its last and flapping wearily. I was relieved to think that I hadn't tried to open its mouth with my bare hands earlier!
The villagers built and maintained small fishing huts/stugas for the use of anglers. This is one of the best of them on a lake just below the house:
Equipped with a few tables and chairs, a small cast-iron wood stove that doubles as a cooker and a few maps, it even has cleaning equipment and coat hooks provided, plus outdoor benches and tables for clement weather use. And all free, included in the cost of the fishing permit! I often wondered if these would have survived the threat of possible vandalism in the UK or elsewhere. In Sweden, they were perfectly safe, save for the occasional times when they were used as camp-sites by itinerent berry-picking Ukranians and Vietnamese summer visitors, who are annually lured to the country with the promise of high earnings, wealth and easy picking conditions (in mosquito ridden bogs) by unscrupulous Swedish soft-fruit businesses.
I must get some summery pix of Sweden but first I'll have to transfer them from J's Mac laptop to my main Mac Mini. No doubt, it'll be a prize pain to do this. But I'll give it a go - maybe have to use a wee USB thingy to achieve this?
Spent much of the afternoon gently bruleéing in the sun, working in the garden; still digging veg plots, but getting there slowly. J mowed the grass and rested in the shade from time to time. Jack ran around looking for sticks to chew and Charlie.....well, who knows? He brought a late night take away home in the early hours, wailed noisily as he came into the bedroom and then equally noisily crunched his way through what must once have been a mouse, going by the few remnants remaining on the morning floor. He then spent almost the entire day out and about.
We managed to have a BBQ this evening before the sun set with a bottle of chilled Rosé to wash it all down. Tomorrow we have an early start and must drive up to the Basse Normand to collect our old desk which we need badly! On Sunday we have arranged to travel down towards Bordeaux to buy a chicken ark. Then, we can get a few point of lays, we hope!
I nipped into town this afternoon to buy a few bits and bobs - plonk etc., and to snatch a piccy of the finest Magnolia tree in blossom I've ever come across. It's behind the Marie/Hotel de Ville/Town Hall, and unfortunately I missed it at its best - last week, I'd guess - because I was in London.
The whiteish stuff on the ground below the tree is the fallen petals from its blooms.
The local farmer has seperated the cows from their calves today, so the poor old dears are wandering around bellowing non-stop while the young 'uns career around a nearby field, slithering to a halt before turning tail and galloping back to their start point. Bleeding noisy!