the birds and the.... er... - by Theo

One of my favourite walking routes for Rosie's morning nap is the park of Los Molinos, about 10/15 minutes stride away on the posher side of Arturo Soria. A lovely landscaped park that was once the property of a noted local architect, Rosie and I have become such a regular feature there that I'm now on "buenas dias" terms with several of the dog walkers there - one even apparently knows if he's running late if we're leaving as he arrives!
Over the past couple of weeks the park has become increasingly beautiful as the blossom has made an appearance, and with it the photographers. Several of the walks are completed surrounded by fruit and nut trees in full flower, and the scent is delightful.


So, as temperatures hovered in the early twenties last weekend I suggested to Kate that we head to the park before Rosie's naptime to give our now confidently crawling little girl a chance to try out her skills on grass. She was less than impressed - occasionally putting out a hand as if to test the water before quickly withdrawing it at the strange texture. She was quite taken by some falling blossom, stroking the petals gently, but generally she was, as ever, far more taken with her shoe.
Still, it was a lovely afternoon, fresh but warm in the sun with birdsong and the heavy smell of nectar all around. It was only as we left that I realised what was missing. In all my visits to Los Molinos I have yet to see a bee or, for that matter, a pollinator of any kind. Sad to think that all that beautiful blossom may never bear fruit.

Family Outing - by Theo

Finally a reasonably warm and sunny spring weekend here in Madrid!

We took advantage and went on a little family outing to the Retiro on the bus that goes from just around the corner.

A lovely day for a stroll and an al fresco snack!

of sewing and planting...

Before I start this post proper I just want to say something about sewing. Sewing by hand is not something I do for pleasure, but if the necessity arises for tears in clothes to be repaired or buttons replaced, I don't object to sitting down with needle and thread. And as an act of love (which probably won't be repeated all that often) I don't mind spending a few hours, preferably with a gin and tonic or glass of cider nearby, sewing patches in my husband's jeans. Plus, it's worth it to be spared the sight of him marching down the street with the innards of his pockets hanging out the sides of his strides in what I can only describe as a testicular fashion.

But once sewing becomes mechanised the potential for complication and frustration is greatly magnified and frankly, I can't be doing with it. I once spent an entire week - a week of leave from work - making two pairs of curtains. It's a week of my life I will never get back and I have vowed not to throw away so much precious time in that way again. After his own experience at the sewing machine, Theo has gained some insight into my attitude towards that particular domestic activity. But his mosquito net-curtain for Sheena will, I'm sure, prove to be a very useful addition to her facilities come the hotter weather.

Speaking of weather, it's been disappointingly British in Quercy over the last week - unsettled and it has to be said, rather chilly. But we're still enjoying our absorption into Mum and Jean's vacances routine of multi-course meals (admittedly, that doesn't only happen during the holidays), generous aperitifs and a lot of card games.

We also had the honour of being included in the Ste. Croix spring lunch, to which the entire village came and only VIP outsiders - which sort of included us - were invited. On this occasion it was also "the planting of the Mai", a ceremony used partly to signify the induction of the new village council, whose elected officials now include both Mum and Jean.

In true French style (of which I highly approve) the fete started with aperos and nibbles all round before the Mai - a very tall piece of sprouting bamboo - was duly planted, mainly by Councillor Jean, who got his best trousers covered in mud and quick-drying cement in the process. A short speech was made by the lady mayor of Ste, Croix, who said she and her fellow councillors would work for the pleasure of the local people. A sentiment applauded with no small amount of lechery by the mayor of neighbouring Montcuq, who'd come to add his official presence to the gravity of the occasion. Jean, no respecter of authority, made sure M. Montcuq got some well-deserved heckling, much to the approval of most of the onlookers.
Then it was time for the lunch, a proper, sit-down affair, which Theo and I were able to share by leaving aside the smoked salmon of the salad starter and the poultry and sausage of the delicious cous cous main course. Portions were generous and after the ice-cream and coffee that followed we all felt absolutely stuffed. Ste. Croix being more of a hamlet in size than a village, there were about forty people there and Theo was absolutely right when he observed that it looked like a scene from something like the Midsomer Murders, not so much because of the type of activity underway, but because of the cast of characters. The glamorous lady mayor, the local busybody, the disapproving middle-aged woman, the black guy, the woman in the wheelchair... Unlike The Midsomer Murders there was no trail of bloody bodies, but judging from some of the stories told to us by my elected councillor mum, the place is a hot bed of affaires, break-ups and personal dramas aplenty. One final observation - unlike the mayors in England, who generally hang about wearing ridiculous capes and outrageous amounts of bling, the lady mayor of Ste. Croix organised the meal, made the aperos and served out the food. And all she got to denote her status was a modest, tricolore sash.

Oh to be in Audeland, now that spring is here...

Neither of us has been in France during April before, and the landscape is thus a surprise to us, and a very pleasant one at that. Whereas in summer or autumn, when we are both used to visiting, we would expect to see fields of flourishing vines laid out in stringent rows, we find gnarled, bare stumps strapped to their wires, starting to wear the merest of green garlands as the first buds open.

In the past we've been greeted with golds, browns and dusky greens as sun burned fields give way to parched forests; instead the lush greens of young wheat fields are broken by the bright yellow of rape and the nut-brown of ploughed soil, freshly drenched by spring downpours. The French don't go in for fences, so while in England our roadside views are impeded by high stone walls or hedges, here the long, straight avenues allow us vistas of many kilometres across fields and orchards, often catching sight of beautiful buildings as we drive, sometimes covered with frothy mauve wisteria or surrounded by sprinklings of needle pines.

On the drive south to Carcassonne on the river Aude we had an added pleasure; the snowy ridges of the Pyrenees rising up like a glowing white wall in the distance. It's so easy to imagine how, to superstitious folk in times past, they must have seemed like the edge of the world.

In the hills, where sightlines are more restricted, the winding roads take us through woods that are just at their turning point, with acer, alder and poplar racing ahead, sprouting pale green and yellow leaves, while oak, ash and birch lag behind, still brown and winter-spindly.

It really is a wonderful time to visit and while the occasional downpour or drizzle make it nice to have an interesting city to visit, or a warm fire to sit by, generally the spring sunshine and emerging plantlife make the journey just as exciting and fulfilling as the arrival.