Les Lamas de l'Aubaine

The blog has moved . . .

2008-11-14T17:58:00.002+01:00

If you have arrived here, then you will be surprised not to see any exciting new entries in the real life story of llama folk.

That's because we have moved the blog to a new site, that we can control and develop in lots of exciting ways!

Click on this link to see the new blog site. The web address will be www.longley.fr (just as it was for this site), but for now this may not work - so the link takes you to the same place using the alternative address: www.llamadharma.com/blog.

If you have any problems, please send us an email at lamas@longley.fr . . .

See you on the new site!

Wind turbines

2008-11-03T10:49:00.019+01:00

You'll perhaps (I hope!) have noticed some changes to the appearance of this blog.

We thought that it was time to update the original, and liked the idea of a photo in the header. This meant I was hunting for a picture that would work well in the very elongated format necessary. What better than a view of the nearly completed expanded 'parc des éoliennes' which dominates the hilltop on the opposite side of the valley from our house.

The first 8 éoliennes were erected in 2001, the year before we bought the house. They are on a 600 metre high ridge known as the 'Pic de Brau' about a kilometre away from the house. We've spent many an hour sitting on our terrace contemplating their ever-changing appearance: their colour varies from grey to white to orange/pink/scarlet depending on the sun and the clouds.

In November 2006, we were astonished to hear in England that some 'eco-terrorists' had attacked the éoliennes. On the internet, we saw our neighbour, the mayor of the commune, talking to French national TV about this bizarre event. Apparently, in protest against the environmental impact of increasing wind generation in France, someone used tyres, gas bottles and petrol to light fires in two of the éolienne columns. Since then, no-one seems to have claimed responsibility, though the police claim to be still active in investigating it. During August 2007, the remains of the two fatally damaged turbines were removed.

We then heard that there was a plan to greatly enlarge the 'parc des éoliennes' - as well as replacing the two that had been burnt, another 20 were to be built along the ridge. I can imagine the reaction that this might provoke if it were announced for an English beauty spot. The ridge is certainly a magnificent viewpoint - you can see the Pyrenees in the South/West, the Corbieres in the East and the Black Mountain in the North. There's also loads of interesting bird life - including a range of eagles.

So, did we feel a sense of NIMBY outrage? Well, no. In fact, we were quite excited by the whole project. We'd always enjoyed the original eight, so surely 28 would be even better? You hear stories about noise, birds being killed, landscapes disfigured, etc. And yet in our experience, none of the scare stories actually turn out to have any basis in reality.

And for the village, there's an economic dimension. The original eight produced a revenue of around 25% of the total commune income. It seems that the expanded 'parc' will generate about a quarter of a million euros a year for the local coffers. When locals want to maintain and develop facilities, including a village school, this seems pretty compelling.

It's not about trading off destruction of the environment for monetary gain, though. I think the 'parc' is becoming a thing of beauty, a magnificent sculpture. And it's making about 22 megawatts of energy from a renewable source . . . . Would anyone prefer a nuclear/gas/coal power station?

So, along with most of the villagers it seems, we are fans of this development. And it seems appropriate for it to feature at the top of our blog. Have you seen a prettier power station building site . . . . ?

Language note: éolien is an adjective meaning 'to do with the wind' or 'driven by the wind'. éolienne is a modern noun meaning 'wind turbine'. Aeolus (in French 'Éole') was the Greek God of the wind.

(Click here for local paper article, which is interesting if you can manage the French)

Baby fits in

2008-11-02T13:30:00.007+01:00

The new baby is becoming a member of the group. The others show a careful interest, and Elif is watchfully protective.

Elif may be a new mother, but that doesn't mean that she changes in every respect. As always, she eagerly awaits the arrival of the day's food treat. Babies are tolerated but not the centre of attention when there is food to be eaten - sensible priorities when you live with a greedy group like this!

Capucine is still not eating any concentrate - and probably won't until she is weaned. This means that both she and the new baby are free to wander around when the grown-ups are eating. And of course, that means that they can explore the humans who come to see (and film) them.

Click here for the video taken on Wednesday - when the baby was two days old.

Wet Wet Wet

2008-10-29T12:24:00.006+01:00

Well, Elif certainly chose a good day for the birth. It was very possibly the last warm day of the year!

Towards the end of the lovely sunny Monday that was baby's birthday, the clouds began to gather, and Simon broke the news that the forecast was for lots of rain, followed by cold weather. Great.

Sure enough, about four in the morning on Tuesday the heavens opened. I lay in bed listening to the rain gurgling into the gutters, and whilst this rare sound would recently have filled me with nothing but glee at the prospect of a well-watered garden, on this occasion it filled me with a heart-sinking anxiety. I debated getting out of bed and driving up to he field to check that the newest addition to the herd wasn't lying sodden and drowned in a muddy puddle, or shaking uncontrollably with hypothermia. But rationally I knew that, without an easily accessible closed barn into which mother and baby could be safely cajoled, there was nothing much we could do. We certainly couldn't take the baby away from Elif as she needed to suckle, and in any case, there was nowhere to take her to. So I lay there worrying pointlessly, waiting for the dawn, and hoping that Elif was a sensible-enough llama to keep her young one at her side in the shelter out of the rain.

At first light it was reassuring to see that the baby was clearly still alive and bouncing. It was also immensely frustrating to see that she and Elif were the only llamas not huddled in the shelter to keep out of the driving rain. For some reason Elif seemed to prefer the rain to the close sociability of the shelter, and she and the baby were kushed at the top of the field well away from the road and the rest of the group.

The rain continued relentlessly throughout the day, and the baby continued relentlessly to get wet. When I went up to put fresh hay in the shelter, Elif came down to eat some, but the baby insisted on slip-sliding about on the slippery slopes, and kushing in muddy puddles. I couldn't believe that this skinny little bundle of soggy wool and bones would survive in the ever-cooling wind-chill of the first wintery day of the year.

But she has. And even though the temperature has continued to drop (with a forecast of zero degrees for tonight), she seems to be doing fine. Still, I guess the mountains in Chile must get pretty chilly sometimes.....

First Steps . . . . . The Video

2008-10-29T10:00:00.012+01:00

Click here to view the video

It could take a while for the video to load, so be patient. It's just a rough cut - no commentary or fancy editing!

First Steps

2008-10-28T12:50:00.009+01:00

Just like pots that don't boil, watched llamas don't give birth. You can spend hours at a time studying the moment to moment activities of a pregnant llama, searching vainly for any signs of an impending delivery, and then just within the few moments it takes to grab a quick breakfast of coffee and a croissant, out pops a baby.

Having been expecting Elif to give birth any time since August, we have watched and studied and considered her physical appearance and behaviour. We have read all the relevant books and internet articles we could find about llama births. We knew what we were looking for - we'd even had the experience of Fatma and Capucine only 6 months ago. Were Elif's teats 'bagging up'? Was her fat belly changing shape as the baby 'dropped' prior to birth? Was Elif behaving differently? Taking herself away from the herd? Not eating? Showing signs of discomfort?

Was she hell. Nothing. All we could do was keep checking and watching, and hope we didn't totally miss the Big Moment.

At least we managed to get there quicker this time. In retrospect, we realise that by the time we noticed that Fatma had given birth, her baby must already have been at least an hour old. This time, the sight of Elif adopting the pooing pose to expel the placenta was the first clue we had that anything was happening/had happened. We wasted no time. We grabbed a bag of llama food, the cameras, some carrier bags (for the placenta) and a kitchen roll (clean towels anyone?) and jumped into the car.

As we arrived at the gate, all the other llamas headed down to greet us as normal. Elif was clearly in two minds about joining them - nothing comes between her and food these days. But we quickly occupied the others with their daily rations in the catch-pen, and headed up towards the field shelter where Elif was standing by the fence with a very bedraggled bundle of fluff and slime at her feet, and a shiny bag of placenta hanging between her back legs.

The bedraggled bundle was wriggling around, all a-tremble, all legs and feet and long neck, struggling pathetically to stand up on its ridiculously concertina-d limbs. Elif had considerately dropped her load on the ever-growing bed of uneaten hay that has collected in front of the field shelter over recent weeks. A nice soft landing for the baby indeed. But also perilously close to the wire netting of the fence, at the sloping bottom of the hill. The wriggling baby thrashed around in a tumult of dry hay, dusty mud and twigs, endlessly defeated in its gallant attempts to stand up on elastic legs by the cruel combination of gravity and the incline of the land.

It was painful to watch. We held our breath each time it managed to get one corner of its tiny body perched in the air atop a strangely bent leg, willing it on in its mammoth endeavour, only to let out exasperated sighs as it toppled over again into a crumpled heap. We watched helplesslessly as its wrigglings pulled it further downhill, closer and closer to the bottom of the wire fence. It was only a matter of time before its tiny head, sliding back and forth on the end of its snaking neck, would find itself on the wrong side of the fence.

Sure enough it did. And although we had been keeping a repectful distance so as not to interfere with mother nature, things were getting nasty. Elif did not take kindly to my approach, as I moved in ready to lift the wire and pull the baby's head back inside. She stuck her face very close to mine and I could hear the gurgling sounds of semi-digested food making its angry way back up her long throat in readiness for the almighty spit that was sure to come my way if I did not back off. I hastily reconsidered my approach.

Wishing the road-side boundary wasn't so long, I headed off back down through the two gates and out on to the other side of the fence, making my way carefully (but speedily) back up the fence line, balancing precariously on the thin thorny, stumpy ledge above the road, to where the baby's head was sticking through. Although aware that the fence would not protect me from a good spitting, I did at least feel safe from a possible trampling-to-death by an over-protective mother.

Aware of our responsibilities to our audience, Simon remained inside the field with the video-camera. Unfortunately however, my life-saving act of heroism was not recorded for posterity. Possibly Simon was overcome with the drama of the moment and allowed his battle-zone camera skills to lapse. Possibly he was busy deleting stuff from the camera's memory to make space for new footage. Either way, he didn't capture this bit of excitement for the blog, so you will just have to take my word for it. He did however, have the sensible idea of piling up hay against the fence to prevent a repeat occurrence.

The baby had a little inert rest. Elif eyed us suspiciously. We waited.

The wriggling began again, and eventually, after much lifting of the back end on two legs, followed by headlong flat-on-the-face falls when the front legs wouldn't stay rigid, the baby managed to get up into a precarious pose with its front feet facing the wrong way. It seemed an impossible position, and for a few moments I was convinced the baby had either broken both ankles, or was seriously deformed.

After a few more face-in-the-mud tumbles, and another head-through-the-wire escapade (this time remedied by a hasty, adrenalin-induced grab-and-pull approach, oblivious to the ominous gurglings of the anxious mother), the baby was up. All four legs out straight. All joints correctly aligned. Swaying....staggering.......and flomp! Down and flat, with it all to do again.

And so passed many happy minutes in the lovely October sunshine. Up....yes?...Yes?......No! The village clock struck eleven. My God! This had been going on for more than an hour already.

Eventually, the length of the Up moments began to exceed the time spent floundering at ground level, and we watched in awe as the baby quickly learnt to adjust its balance to the vagaries of the uneven surface and the precarious slope. A few of the funnier cartoon moments (when the baby's downhill velocity exceeded its ability to stay in directional control, resulting in full-on collisions with small tree trunks) were missed by the camera-man, who had very responsibly remembered that our poor, long-suffering dog, Max, had been waiting patiently for his morning walk attached to a tree by his lead outside the gate.

By the time Simon returned from walking the dog, the baby had got the whole business of staying upright pretty much cracked, so now we just had to wait for the next important development - suckling.

I recalled Capucine's early hours on this planet, and remembered that it had taken her a surprisingly long time to get the hang of this apparently instinctive behaviour. We had waitied for at least an hour, while she stumbled around under various non-mother llamas, looking for the milk bar, until she eventually decided to stick with Fatma, and limit her searching to a smaller area. Due to Elif's highly developed mothering skills, there was little chance of this baby looking in completely the wrong place. Elif was making damn sure that her baby didn't stray more than a couple of yards from her side, and she wasn't being exactly welcoming of the attention coming the baby's way from the rest of the herd. So all this baby had to do was find the right end, the right position and the right sucking action.

How could it take SO LONG? Time ticked by. We watched and waited and watched and waited. The baby stumbled around trying here, then there, then almost there, then somewhere else completely. Elif tried to help. She stood still. She nudged the baby in the right direction. She encouraged the baby back to its feet for another try, whenever it gave up and flopped down. She repositioned herself. Again and again. So close.....but no. Nearly....but no. And then, after about another hour, the unmistakeable sounds of sucking combined with the sign of the baby's tail in the up-and-connected position, brought to us all the long-awaited sense of relief.

Everything was going to be alright. The weather was good. The baby was healthy and suckling. Elif took a break to wolf down some hay, while keeping a very close eye on the little one, who kushed down exhausted behind the field shelter, to dry off in the sunshine. And we went home for a bit of lunch.

By the afternoon, the baby was cavorting around the field like a crazy thing, finding out just what those strange long legs were capable of, and Elif was bad-temperedly following her around, clearly wishing it was baby bed-time.

Some baby pictures

2008-10-28T12:27:00.003+01:00

A few more cria pictures on our Picasa site

Enjoy!

A baby at last!

2008-10-27T15:37:00.004+01:00

After weeks and weeks of wondering where Elif's baby had got to . . . . Is she really pregnant or just getting amazingly fat? . . . . . This morning, without fuss, she gave birth to a female cria

Within a couple of hours, the baby (as yet un-named) was staggering round and working out how to suckle from her mother. More pictures later, and video of the baby's antics.

Normal

2008-10-17T16:39:00.044+02:00

Oh dear. Another three weeks have passed without a blog entry. Shame on us! Excuses this time? A week's visit from Simon's Mum and Dad, followed by a stint of time helping my sister and bro-in-law to renovate their village house in time for a tenancy arrangement starting on 15 October.

Simon's parents got the usual Welcome to the Roquetaillade Llama-and-Chicken Experience, albeit without the llama walking activity.

Valentine overcame his misgivings about approaching big metal things containing strangers to eat a little snack from Simon's Mum's hand out of the landrover...

...and Capucine astounded us by taking her first ever piece of hand-fed carrot from his Dad, despite the ominous presence of an unusual big stick.

As is often the case when we have visitors, we found ourselves looking at our surroundings with holiday eyes, taking some time just to sit and enjoy the sunshine and the views, and to really appreciate the loveliness of October in this climate. However, the family visits are over for the time being (more planned for November), and for the moment things are back to normal.

Normal? Now there's an interesting concept.

According to Ellen Goodman, (no, I don't know who she is either...)

"Normal is getting dressed in clothes that you buy for work and driving through traffic in a car that you are still paying for - in order to get to the job you need to pay for the clothes and the car, and the house you leave vacant all day so you can afford to live in it."

I guess, not so long ago, that was sort of Normal for us too. And, to friends and colleagues still fully enagaged in the life we left behind, our current Normal wouldn't seem normal at all. Our days now consist of a limited range of repetitive activities involving the care, feeding and cleaning of our animals (and of ourselves). We rarely use the car, we wear the same old stuff day in, day out (not much change there, come to think of it...), and we are at home pretty much all the time, when we're not out with the animals.

Life is simple and, well, ordinary. It seems hard to think of anything to write about when every day is so similar to the one before.

The most notable event of the last week was the discovery last Sunday morning of a gaping, two-metre-wide hole in the fence of the Breeders' field, just in front of the field shelter. Simon had gone over to the Rough Land to visit the Walkers, and I had done my usual morning stuff with the Breeders. I noticed Fatma's halter was missing, and assumed she had managed to pull it off whilst foraging through the fence for a delicious bit of ash tree on the other side - it was quite loose after all. I thought little more of it, until I carried a fresh bale of hay up to the shelter, turned round to admire the view back to the village, and saw a big space where the fence should have been.

Someone had cut the wire grill in a big L shape and bent back the fencing, leaving the field open straight on to the road. It took me a while to actually believe what I was seeing. After all - the llamas were all present and correct, and behaving quite normally. Putting the fact of the hole together with the fact of the missing halter, I constructed in my imagination a scenario of attempted animal theft, in which Fatma had managed to evade capture by wriggling out of her halter - and for once I was thankful that llamas can be so hard to catch. But why (or indeed how) anyone would try to steal llamas by cutting the fence, and pulling them down a steep bank on to the road, instead of just opening the gate, baffled me.

Needless to say, I effected a hasty repair, tying the fencing together with the baler twine I'd just removed from the hay, and called Simon on his mobile with the interesting news. Cunningly hiding his disappointment that I wasn't ringing to inform him of an impending llama birth behind his normal, run-of-the-mill crisis-response tone, Simon formulated a well-considered plan of action. "Stay there, I'm coming."

Luckily we still had a bit of a roll of fencing left in the garage, so we collected all the neccessary bits and bobs and returned to replace the damaged panel. Of course it took longer than we expected - all our careful tensioning of the whole length of the road-side fence had depended on the integrity of the fencing wire - but we managed an adequate fix that looked almost as good as new. Clearly the llamas were in no hurry to go walkabout (not even Capucine, who regularly pokes her head through the fence to eat, just like Ana used to do), so I was not really concerned that they would escape. I just didn't want any sharp bits where their foraging necks might be leaning.

A later conversation with our neighbour resulted in the dogmatic verdict that it wasn't attempted theft, but was a personal attack by a crazy, jealous person who wanted to cause us difficulty and the expense of the repair. Apparently, the same thing had happened to them when they used to keep horses on the land, although they had suffered more, because the horses had actually got out, and had to be rounded up from the road. They advised us to take photos of the damage and to report it to the gendarmarie.

Too late for the photos, and, we decided, not much point in reporting it. Best to just ignore it and try not to get paranoid. I figured that causing a fuss would probably give the perpetrator something to watch and enjoy, and that the zen thing to do would be to forgive and forget, and carry on as normal with a friendly smile for everyone we come across. Of course the paranoia sneeks in now and then, followed by a cascade of negative thinking in which everyone in the village hates and resents us, and will not cease to hound and harrass us until we give up and leave, with our sad and sorry outsiders' tails hanging dejectedly between our immigrant legs.

But a week has gone by. All is Quiet on the Western Front, and the paranoia is fading away in the mid-October sunshine. Our training activities with the Walkers continue with gradually increasing levels of challenge. We now often take Valentine and Ana out together, as Duc seems quite happy to spend a little bit of time on his own. He is very much the leader of their little herd, and as such has developed a bit of a Man-Alone demeanour, often to be found grazing apart from the other two, and a bit higher up the hill.

And in attempting to close the gap toward the goal of bringing the llamas right into the village, Simon has begun walking Duc and Valentine along a track that circles just outside the boundary of habitation, in full view of the children cavorting noisily on the tiny play area next to the village hall, and of the variously stationed platoon of barking dogs that inhabit our end of the village. This route also brings them into full view of the Breeders, who watch with curiousity and wariness from their splendid vantage point higher up the road. Pedro, in particular, watches the progress of these upstart threats to his herd dominance with a rigid posture and unwavering gaze, following the direction of their walking long after they have actually disappeared from sight.

The mysterious cause of Elif's increase in size remains to be determined. Still no offspring. Still no diminishing of her appetite.

Always at the front of the queue to get into the shelter with the fresh hay....

...and always the one with her nose in the bag looking for any remaining morsels of breakfast, when the others have accepted that it really is "All Gone".

I'm still uncertain as to whether I should be feeding her up in preparation for an impending birth, or putting her on a diet to lose the flab. Either way, it's so hard to resist those big brown eyes when she gets up close with her warm breath on my face, and looks hopefully toward the food bag when I'm zipping it up, as if to say, " Just one more mouthful....go on....pleeeease."

Things That Have(n't) Happened.

2008-09-26T15:15:00.009+02:00

I am currently in the process of writing a review of our first six months in the Land of the Free Fruit and Vegetables. However, as I launched into the third wordy paragraph (of the introduction!), I realised it would be some time before the undertaking would be complete, and that, if it was to include any incidental detail of the daily funandhilarity of our present existence, it would end up being so long that no one would ever bother to read it. So I thought I'd better do a short update just to let y'all know we're still here, and we still care.

Things that have happened recently:

Naughty Chicken has started laying eggs (at last!) and yesterday was our first ever Four Egg Day. I am already going off scrambled eggs on toast.
Naughty Chicken has got into the vegetable garden, necessitating the hasty construction of a chicken-proof barrier above the garden wall. At the time this happened, I was convinced she was terrorising me, as she flew/jumped over the wall after chasing (well, hastily following) me all around the garden and up to the gate. Simon manfully dragged himself out of his Sunday morning lie-in to catch her and return her to the main garden. As he turned his back to walk away, congratulating himself on a chicken-catching job well done, she promptly flew/jumped back over the wall again, trumpeting smugly to herself, as she headed for those delicious baby lettuces, laid out in neat little breakfast-shaped rows. Naughty and Persistent Chicken.
Naughty Chicken has escaped from the garden, and was found today browsing contentedly in the adjacent overgrown land of a neighbour, in the company of a large black and white cat. Having so far failed to clarify her exact escape route, we have not yet sealed the breach. Instead we are trying to make the home garden a more compelling place-to-be, through the provision of tasty bowls of leak and potato soup (of which we can - and do - make vast quantities). Naughty, Persistent and Greedy Chicken.
Pedro has become happily accustomed to having his halter fitted, and is getting used to being led around inside the field on his lead, in preparation for stepping out with us into the big, bad world. He seems more like a big, soft, woolly teddy-bear every day.
Capucine has eaten some carrot-peel from the ground in the catch-pen. Not a big deal I hear you mutter - but the implication of this is that we can now start encouraging her to eat pieces of carrot from our hands, and then we will be able to use hand-fed treats to reinforce any behaviours we want her to learn. Bring on the burning hoops!
Pedro and Fatma are still mating with a depressing degree of regularlty. Nice for Pedro, I'm sure. Not so good for us, the ever-hopeful owners of a llama-breeding business. Unless Fatma happens to be one of those unusual females that continue to tolerate mating even when pregnant, there will not be any more little ones running around their feet within the next twelve months at least.
We have conducted our first fully French, non-family visit to the llamas. Following a phone call last Monday from a french lady asking if she could bring a group of school children to feed the llamas, we duly escorted 7 small children, between 3 and 6 years of age (5 french, one belgian and one german) and 2 staff members of their out-of-school club, to see and feed both groups of our llamas. We even rounded off the event by walking Valentine part of the way back to the village with them. Cue lots of photo opportunities of cute little children with bemused llamas. Unfortunately, it wasn't our camera! (Next time....)
Simon has signed up for a proper French Conversation course, through the AVF (Accueil des Villes de France) and in doing so has managed to volunteer his services as an IT know-it-all to assist with their computer classes, and to volunteer our llamas as a venue for outings organised by the AVF for the many and varied groups of newcomers to the area, who avail themselves of the organisation's services.

Things that haven't happened recently:

Elif has not had her baby. We had expected her to give birth some time in August. She is getting bigger and bigger, but shows no signs of popping just yet. Given what is going on with Fatma and Pedro, we can see how easy it is to be mistaken about when a llama has become pregnant. We are hoping that Mike and Suzanne were just a bit out with the dates. I am hoping that Elif's huge belly is not simply the result of the extra rations of concentrate food I've been giving her for the last couple of months in the belief that she was pregnant and in need of more protein. Pregnant or obese? Only time will tell.
We have not bought any land. The long saga of the 8 hectares we were going to buy, and the wine & cereal-growing farmer who also wanted the land, and all the bureaucratic shenanegans with SAFER, has finally reached a conclusion. Having frantically put in a last-minute (literally), official, all-in-french, (slogged-over for 10 hours and proof-read by a french neighbour) request to be considered as candidates for the purchase of the land through SAFER, we ended up coming to an amicable agreement with the farmer. We agreed to withdraw our application, thus leaving him free to buy it all and to continue to develop his cereal-growing business, on the understanding that we could continue to keep our llamas on the Rough Land for at least two years, while he helps us to find a suitable alternative. He has also agreed that, when we find some land, he will clear the space for the fencing for us, using his tractor and various other items of heavy-and-very-useful-machinery. So he gets his land, the previous owner gets his money, and we get to continue to live (cost-free) on the goodwill of others.
I have not signed up for anything. No French lessons for me. No opening-my-mouth and getting-roped-in for helping in social or work-type activities (except of course to assist Simon when his preemptive folly bears fruit). No meeting groups of other English immigrants for afternoons stumbling though woefully inadequate conversations in something-like-french-with-terrible-accents. I will stay at home with the Internet and a french dictionary, and teach myself enough to get by in all the social contact I want. Which isn't much.
I have not overcome my feather phobia. But it's getting better. And I have stopped running away from Naughty Chicken.
I have not finished the Pooh Corner map of Llamaland. Maybe I will. Maybe I won't.

PS This is a little note to Mike in response to his comment on our blog of 21 August.
"Sorry mate, Duc and Valentine are not for sale (to you or to anyone). They're part of the family, and we need them to teach all the young-llamas-to-come everything they know. You can't have custody, but you can have visiting rights whenever you want!"

What day is it?

2008-09-13T11:51:00.005+02:00

It really struck me this week, that days have lost their importance. Val said something about a "Monday morning feeling", and my first reaction was "Is it Monday then?"

The routine of our life centres around the various animals - and in some senses they are more demanding than work ever was. Although the breeding llamas would wait for a few hours for their morning feed, there's no way we could miss out a day. The chickens are impatient to be let out when it gets light - and I feel absolutely obliged to get up, put on wellies and go down to them. And at the end of the day, they need to be closed in when the sun sets . . . . .

I never miss a day going to the walking llamas, although I do allow myself the 'luxury' of sometimes not going till the afternoon. I guess they would be fine without a visit one day, and they do have plenty of food so they aren't dependent in the same way as the breeders. But I know that llamas are very much creatures of routine (going to the same position for their food bucket, pausing each time at the same point on a walk because they can see back to the 'home' field, using a fixed toilet area) and we get drawn into the same patterns.

In fact, I am coming to the conclusion that humans and other animals are most comfortable when life has routines. We now are 'closer to nature' in that our routines are determined by the rising and setting of the sun, and in the longer term by the seasons, rather than by the 'artificial' constructs of work etc. I suppose that perhaps I am happier now because it's not the arbitrary decision of someone else that rules my life . . . . but the equally arbitrary patterns of the universe.

Days of the week have nothing to do with nature. I'm rather glad I don't have to think differently about Mondays. Mind you, it would be nice sometimes to just have a day off.

Hunting chickens!

2008-09-05T16:38:00.003+02:00

Each, Peach, Pear, Plum....

2008-08-27T17:07:00.003+02:00

This is a blog about plums.

Plum is a nice-sounding word. Like 'plump', round and cosy without being fat. And if you say it lots of times quite fast, it sounds like a small, naughty elephant running down a mossy corridor.

I like plums. Red ones, yellow ones, big ones, small ones, sweet ones. Even sour ones. They are a happy, easy-going sort of fruit. They grow in cool wet countries (we had some random damson trees in the garden in Derby), and they grow especially well in the countryside around here. At this time of year, every time you go for a walk, you will find some smiling at you from the hedgerows and laughing heartily as they perlump onto the road in front of you.

Our plum story started quite early this year, when the scarey cherry tree on the Rough Land, that we thought would poison our llamas, turned out to be an inoffensive, and actually quite likeable plum tree.

Strange plums to be sure - the size of a large cherry, with very dark red skin, and yellow inside, ripening too late to be a cherry, and yet too early to be a plum.

However, to go back to the beginning....

Being responsible (and inexperienced) llama keepers, we made it our business to read up on all the possible hazards to llamas that the land we are using might hold. The list seemed endless.

Our initial fears about poisoning from broom pods led us into weeks of back-breaking work trying to rid our first lot of land of the broom in which it was enveloped. However, it turns out that llamas are not the least bit interested in broom, even when there is absolutely nothing else around to eat.

Then we worried about buttercups and acorns. I think we've seen one buttercup in our field, and there won't be any acorns - the llamas have eaten all the oak trees!

No sign so far of any ragwort (although it's surprising how many other yellow weeds, with daisy-like flowers and lobed leaves, hang around in the wild pretending to be the paranoia-inducing culprit).

And then we came upon the big cherry tree on the Rough Land.

Now the sight of the cherry tree filled us with mixed feelings. With the hottest part of the year on the horizon, the llamas were sorely in need of a big tree to provide a decent amount of shade from the 36 degree sun. But the thought that one mouthful of wilting cherry leaf at the end of the summer could kill a full-grown llama like (actually, very like) a cyanide pill, gave us serious cause for concern.

We decided to lop off the lowest branches which I figured were within easy llama-chomping reach (very carefully disposing of the wilting off-cuts, way away, out of llama browsing range), and postpone any serious tree-felling, until we knew whether the llamas would actually show any interest in eating the remaining bits of reachable tree. Apparently, all parts of the tree could be poisonous, but the stones, and the wilted leaves would be the deadliest.

We waited and watched. And although initially all the llamas seemed quite oblivious to it, we noticed Duc's interest in the lowest branches growing, along with the small round fruits which were developing in profuse clusters throughout the tree.

By the end of June, Duc was up to his old standing-on-hind-legs-like-a-circus-horse tricks, and deftly removing the ripening fruits for a crunchy snack between grass-and-blackthorn meals.

I began to panic - imagining we would return the following day to find Duc an inert heap below the deadly cherry tree. Simon simply refused to accept that this could possibly be an issue, and willed the tree to just NOT BE A CHERRY TREE. He found a very red, juicy-looking little specimen and bit into it. "This is a plum", he stated triumphantly, in that 'I'm always right' sort of voice he has. "But it looks like a cherry", I countered, "It has cherry bark, and cherry leaves, and those small red things look like cherries to me". "That may be so, my dear, but it tastes like a plum."

And so it did. But, unable to identify the species, I figured it was probably some weird freaky plum-cherry, that would still cause serious illness if not death. And now, Duc's antics were beginning to bring down tasty morsels for Valentine and Ana to snuffle up from the ground. For my own peace of mind we needed to act.

Which is how Simon came to be up a ladder, surrounded by greedy llamas, picking cherryplums, while I stood below holding the ladder and trying to catch the errant fruits that escaped Simon's grasp, before vast quantities were gobbled up by the four-legged vacuum cleaners.

It is also how we managed to fill our freezer with many kilos of small, (and very hard to stone) plums for a rainy November's day making jam, and how we discovered, in the end, that llamas do not die from eating plum stones.

And so to August....when the REAL plum harvest begins.

There is a lovely orchard just off a track in the hillside near us, that is bursting with a profusion of fruits, and which we have never yet seen tended by anyone. Which is to say that, although we see that the ground below the trees is hoed and cleared of weeds, and we see CDs hung in the branches (presumably to keep away the birds), and lately we have seen bags of garlic hung like talismanic garlands around the necks of some of the smaller trees, we have never yet, in all our six years of visiting the orchard in our walks, seen anyone there. And no one ever seems to pick the fruit - which grows beautifully, (even in the years when early weather conditions result in a poor harvest across the region of particular fruits like apricots or cherries), and which simply falls to the ground in untouched pools of abundance.

We have never taken any of this fruit because, although it seems that much, if not all of it will be simply left to rot, taking it without being able to ask someone's permission to do so just feels plain wrong. And of course, I always feel as if someone (probably very tiny and ethereal) is watching us from the covered darkness of the wild land that surrounds the orchard. But while the fruit did not find its way into our mouths, it certainly found its way into our dreams.

So when we first thought that we would be buying 8 hectares of land, we fantasized about using an acre of it to plant an orchard of our own. We debated which fruit we would grow, and researched which varieties would grow best in this climate. We checked out the price of young trees for planting, and the price of the necessary tools to prepare the land. And when we realised we would not be getting the land after all (more details to follow....), I had a real sense of disappointment that we would have nowhere to create our own orchard, to provide the sweeter elements of our self-sufficient life-style. Tomatoes, lettuces and peppers are easy to grow in a little back-garden plot, but fruit trees need so much more space.

But now I understand what it means to let the Universe provide. We do not need to grow our own orchard because we are actually living in the middle of a very big one.

Walking down the tracks and lanes that radiate into the hills from the village, there is fruit for free wherever you look. The cherries are all finished, as are most of the apricots , but there are apples, pears, (and apples that taste like pears) figs, medlars, blackberries, elderberries, grapes (from wild, escaped vines) almonds, walnuts and plums, plums, PLUMS. The hardest thing to learn is how to walk past a wild tree, overflowing with fruit, and NOT stop to pick a few bag-loads to take home.

Last week, when we had family visitors here to assist, we netted a trawl of more than 10 kilos of big, fat, purple plums from one track-side tree. But since we already have loads ready for jam-making, these have been turned into a delicious stewed-fruit desert, frozen in meal-sized portions, to be eaten at our leisure with ice cream or creme fraiche. And there are still more out there, calling to us from the hedgerows..."Pick me. Eat me..." This all brings to mind a book I used to read my children in the late eighties (by Margaret Mahy, I think) called JAM. I am sure we could easily end up with more than enough plums to fill our bellies (and our dreams) between now and the beginning of next year's harvest. When we can of course start all over again.

And I am also pleased to report that llamas suffer no ill effects whatsoever from plum-munching, and that Duc, having a very particular liking for for the juicy treats, can sniff one out at 20 metres. When out for a little ramble as part of his walking training, he has learnt where all the plums trees are along the various routes, and he starts scanning the ground for fallen bounty as soon as we approach the spot. I wondered whether there could be a special use for a plum-hunting llama, along the lines of those truffle-hunting pigs. I guess not. Nevertheless, it is a joy to behold him using his dextrous lips to gently pick up a full, ripe plum from the ground, squish it resolutely between his teeth and hard palate exactly as his head draws level with Simon's, and to smugly crunch the stone to nothingness as Simon wipes the sprayed juice from his hair.

Walking with llamas

2008-08-21T13:38:00.010+02:00

Llama walking is a strange art. You can read loads about the principles in books and on the web. However, there seems to be no real substitute for trying to be 'in tune' with your own llamas.

When you are out with a single llama, this is much easier than when you have a group. The lone llama and you form a pair – and to walk successfully you must communicate with each other. I find this means I must watch and listen to the llama, and I also speak to him/her. As a result, I often go for quite long walks without seeing very much of the landscape. I tend to scan the area ahead, trying to anticipate anything that might alarm the llama.

Then I spend a lot of time actually looking at the llama, watching where they are watching, and taking note of how they are holding their ears. I'm really not sure that their hearing is very acute (and I have sometimes had to make quite a lot of noise to attract their attention from 40 or 50 metres) but if their ears are forward and erect it's a good sign that the walk is stimulating without being frightening!

Their eyesight is certainly pretty good – and if they are staring into the distance, you can almost always spot something of significance if you look carefully in the same direction. Of course, 'significant' to a llama is not the same as to a human, and it sometimes takes a bit of working out to decide what it is that's holding their attention.

Llamas are generally very cooperative. The lead is there mostly as a guide – and generally is not used to restrain the animal. There are, of course, times when the llama tries to pull away – almost invariably when they are scared. You know you are succeeding in keeping your llama calm, and in communicating with them, when you can walk along with the lead hanging down in a slack curve between you and the llama. Adam shows this well with Valentine, who tends to be rather over-enthusiastic when walking. We are still working on getting him to stay in the correct position that Adam has achieved here (i.e. head alongside the leader, with body behind).

Of course, things get more complicated when you walk llamas in a group. Over the last week, we've had a chance to practice this as Claire and Adam have provided two extra pairs of (very capable) hands.

We had previously been walking no more than two llamas at once. As Ana is the least experienced, we've tended to take her out with either Duc or Valentine. And, because Ana is the youngest, and lowest status, she has always been following her older companion

Now we've had a chance to experiment with different combinations of people and llamas. And among other things, we've learned:

Duc doesn't like having people walking behind him. Presumably, he finds it hard to keep an eye on where the possible threat might be?
Despite this, Duc – as the most 'senior' of the three – likes to lead when there are other llamas out walking. This might explain why he was rather a handful at first when he was being led by Pete the other week.

Get it right, and it all goes very smoothly

Fear and Loathing in Las Chickenas

2008-08-09T17:49:00.002+02:00

Is it possible that, after all these years of carefully avoiding feather-contact situations, I might be able to overcome my phobia?

As a psychologist, I would of course have to say yes. Desensitization; Flooding. Different approaches to the same goal, proffered as obvious solutions by well-meaning psych-professionals, and cashed in on as entertaining TV by programme-makers, none of whom have the faintest inkling of what it actually feels like to be disablingly in the grip of a completely irrational feeling which surpasses common fear.

I am (was) a psychologist. I am also a phobic. Many's the time I have wished that I could swap my phobia for a more commonly acceptable one, like spiders, snakes or rats (none of which bother me in the least). Being 'scared of feathers' seems just plain ridiculous. Of course I know they 'won't hurt me'. Of course I understand my response to the sight, nay, even the thought of the sight of one is utterly unreasonable. But I CAN'T HELP IT.

Since it has been a long-held part of Simon's dream that we should have chickens, I began my preparation for this moment way before we moved to France. Those much-missed visits to the lake at Markeaton Park to watch the ducklings required daily walks across expanses of feather-strewn grass, where the feather-covered geese hung out in huge, threatening gangs. I gradually became accustomed to accomplishing this monstrous feat, motivated by my interest in bird-watching (a strange hobby for a feather phobic perhaps, but I really do like birds), and achieved by not looking down, and focussing my attention on the faces and behaviour of the geese, rather than their attire. But still, one flap from a shore-side swan, or friendly approach from a bread-seeking duck, would have me shuddering and moving hastily away from the scene of the horror.

So how is it that after only a few days of back-yard chicken ownership, I find myself able to sit calmly next to the chickens scratching for seeds a few feet away, able to look (hopefully) in the nesting box for eggs, and able to put my hand inside the chicken house to remove the water-bottle for refilling?

It seems to me that something all those psycho-pros may have missed is the powerful effect of the nurturing instinct. Whilst I am not yet at the stage where I can even contemplate the thought of picking up a chicken, or even touching one with bare hands (well, I can contemplate it but only with a sense of utter revulsion), my interest in them as individual living creatures, and my desire to make sure that they are safe and happy, is enabling me to suppress my aversive reaction to their feathers to a bigger extent than I might have imagined. So long as they don't surprise me, that is.

And they are indeed individuals. Luckily their plumage patterns (a nice name for the indescribable) are just about distinctive enough for us to be able to tell them apart. But as is the case with all living creatures that so often appear to look identical at first glance, it is the differences in behaviour -both the obvious things like actions, habits and movements, and the subtler behaviours amounting to manner and attitude, that really makes them distinguishable. It's those things that make it possible for me to identify whether that white llama on the hill 300 metres away is Duc or Valentine.

As individuals, the chickens have already attracted names. (Good job we're not planning to eat them).

After Naughty Chicken, there is Big Chicken, Pretty Chicken and Other Chicken. (Other Chicken has yet to do anything notable to identify herself in a positive way). Big Chicken is...well...big, and has certainly laid us one egg, if not two (I actually caught her in the act on one occasion). She is nearly always next in line to follow wherever Naughty Chicken goes. Pretty Chicken has come close to being called Blonde or Essex Chicken, because as well as having lighter colouring than the others, and a more attractive general appearance, she is also the most stupid, and lowest in the pecking order. Naughty Chicken is the smallest of the bunch, and I suspect a Bonaparte complex might be the source of her bravado.

At this moment, three of them are huddled, sheltering under the leylandii trees. Naughty Chicken is on her own, checking out the nearest bit of fencing, and looking wistfully into the distance beyond. Sooner or later, one or more of these ladies will go AWOL. Any bets on who is likely to be the first escapee? (Blog comments gratefully accepted, and betting odds will be published in the near future).

So for the time being, all is lovely in the chicken-garden. And perhaps by the time the moulting season comes around, the sight of tumble-weed balls of scraggy brown feathers rolling erratically around my feet will no longer fill me with the gut-wrenching, cardiac-arrest-inducing anxiety levels of a virtual-reality horror movie.

Bed-time Buffoonery

2008-08-04T16:46:00.001+02:00

Chickens are stupid, no doubt about it, but they are also very entertaining. And, I am surprised to say, quite endearing in a pointy-beaked, beady-eyed, huge-legged sort of way. For someone with a deeply entrenched feather-phobia, and an impressively over-reactive startle response to anything that flaps within touching distance, I am overjoyed to say that I like our chickens.

Having initially watched them from a safe distance (and intended that things should stay that way), I found myself called into service on the evening following their first day of freedom, when it became clear that getting them all back into their cosy little house was not a one-man job.

As the sun set and all the other village birds headedoff to bed, our small-brained friends realised it was time to head for overnight safety. Unfortunately, one chicken (the first out of the house in the morning, and the unquestioned leader of the pack) decided that our smart little chicken house on the prairie was no suitable abode for a wild young hen like her. Oh no. She was a wild bird of the woods and she was damn-well gonna do what wild birds do and roost natural-like in a tree. Or on a picnic table. Or a balcony. Or anything, basically, that was UP.

We watched with amusement as the darkness grew deeper, and Naughty Chicken (as she has already become known) clucked around the garden, eyeing up attractive high places, and attempted flutter-thrash-crash-bang flying antics to get into them. After numerous failed attempts and possibly painful, heavy landings, she eventually perched herself precariously half way up a medium sized, Christmas-tree-like conifer in the middle of the garden, the branch swaying ominously under her far-too-heavy-for-such-a-small-branch weight. Songs about French Hens and Christmas ran through my head, pointlessly.

Amusing as it was, Naughty Chicken's behaviour had unsettled the rest of the troop, who stood about like newly-arrived visitors at a deserted foreign train station, not sure whether to head for the direction marked Exit, or follow the only other passenger up the escalator in the opposite direction. By now, the gloaming had transformed itself into proper dark, and we noticed that we had not very cleverly placed the hen house smack in the centre of the pool of orange created by the (very annoying) street light in the road opposite our house. "Should we move it, d'ya think?" I queried? Simon's look needed no verbal accompaniment. He had already slipped into man-of-action mode, and was heading off down into the garden to Sort This Out.

He confidently approached the swaying Christmas tree, grabbed Naughty Chicken like a Sunday joint, and stuffed her into the hen house as if it was an oven (which after the day's heat, it probably was), slamming the door behind her. The other chickens took note, and headed jerkily away. The problem became obvious. How to open the door to get the other chickens in, without letting the miscreant escape? Clearly more than one pair of hands were required, and the only other ones around happened to be mine.

So, donning boots to protect against toe-pecking and accidental feather-touching-skin events, I approached the scene with caution and a big stick, with which to 'coax' the chickens in the desired direction, and prevent unwanted exits from the house, while the door was open.

After another twenty minutes of loud clucking, fluttering, chicken-running, and multiple incidents of hands (Simon's) grabbing/missing/catching flapping bundles of feather and beak, the remaining three hens were safely consigned to their designated sleeping quarters, for another long, hot, night. Inside, they became silent instantly. Perhaps tomorrow they will know where to go at bed-time.

Eggs!

2008-08-03T23:08:00.003+02:00

Well, to be more accurate, egg.

Still, it's the first day. And I did feel really excited. Yes, sad I know, but tomorrow if there's at least one more, we'll be eating them - whether for breakfast or lunch or dinner, I don't care.

And the tomatoes are mine too . . . . :-)

Chicken out!

2008-08-03T13:27:00.006+02:00

All of a rush, it seems, despite the amazingly hot weather, we have completed the fencing and bought the chickens.

The fencing was very hard in parts. The main part of the 'garden' is actually 500 square metres of rocky slope. Trees seem to survive well, and there are seasonal flashes of other plants, but really it's just 'land'. Once we had decided that it might as well all be used for the chickens, the fencing task became clear . . . . we had to erect some 70 metres of fence, made up of wooden posts, straining wires, and galvanised netting. Sounds simple. And so it was, in theory. If it hadn't been for the rocks, it would have been pretty simple in practice.

Hours of banging posts with the heavy post rammer made me dream of a nice office job in a cool climate. There's probably a much easier way to do this, and the locals are watching and laughing their heads off . . . .

Val joined me for a team effort on the wire and netting, and this went much better! With minutes to spare, all was complete and we went off to buy the chickens.

The guy selling the chickens had lots of birds. Ducks, geese, table chickens, laying chickens, quails, all at various ages. My request for four nice 'poules pondeuses' was swiftly dealt with, and each bird grabbed by the legs and held up for my approval. As I stuffed them one by one into my cardboard box I started to wonder whether they would all fit. The seller had no doubts, encouraging me to squeeze them in more, saying I could get twice as many in there . . .

I asked how old they were, and he said nearly six months. He assured me they were already laying, and to prove the point he pulled an egg from their box and added it to a nearly full tray sitting by his chair. Neat magician's trick? Who knows. He did also say that the disruption of moving them could lead to a gap in laying. Then I asked him what breed they were. When he had given the answer twice, I asked him how it was spelt. He looked a bit puzzled, but wrote on the box "Worens". He emphasised that they were the best sort for laying. I thanked him kindly, and left, not much the wiser . . .

A bit of internet research suggests we now own four Warren hens - from a breed of hybrids originally developed for battery egg production. This should at least mean that they are docile and good layers - though whether they'll produce for very long we shall see. No wonder he was puzzled when I asked him how to spell their name - as it's English, and perhaps he thought I should know better than him!

Following all the advice we found in books, we have left the hens in the hen house from their arrival here, and overnight, until they could be released the following morning. They seemed to settle in very well - so quietly that I wondered if they had much life in them!

This morning, everything was amazingly quiet in the hen house. I opened up the window, half expecting to find dead bodies . . . There they all were, standing staring at me . . . .

When I opened the door I sort of expected them to barge their way out to freedom. No . . . they just carried on standing there, showing no enthusiasm at all for the big wide world. I settled down to wait, while Val stood up on the terrace, making encouraging noises from a distance. (Val has, of course, a phobia of feathers, so chickens are obviously my responsibility!)

Eventually, one brave chicken ventured out to explore.

But it was another two hours before he was joined by the rest. Hopefully, they'll settle quickly and start laying!

Salad anyone?

2008-07-26T19:14:00.003+02:00

The salad output from the garden is increasing, and is in danger of overwhelming us. We've already done all the courgette freezing we might fancy, and now the tomatoes (2 varieties), lettuce (3 varieties) and the cucumbers are all in full production at once.

We need people to come and eat some! Or at least make some new recipe suggestions. Salad for breakfast doesn't appeal, and it already makes up most other meals . . . .

Relief

2008-07-26T10:07:00.006+02:00

It's Saturday and clearly the weather has decided to give me a weekend break. I am happy to say that it is raining. Yes, lovely cool, wet stuff, falling from the cloudy sky and raising my spirits.
Today I will keep the shutters open and watch the birds feeding on the balcony. Today I will open the doors and let a refreshing breeze drift through the house. Today I will celebrate the drizzle and enjoy the absence of blue skies. Tomorrow, I will probably be moaning about the mud, and the slugs, and the fact that I can't dry the washing. But today I am happy.

This morning, in between the welcome showers, we did the usual round of llama visits and progress continues on all fronts.

Elif will now let me touch her head and even her neck, while I'm feeding her from my hand, and I think it may have dawned on Fatma that letting these strange people touch you is a good way to get extra grub. She has started trying to get in on the act, while I'm communing with Elif, and I'm thinking that I may as well work on her at the same time.

Capucine, although she still doesn't eat anything other than natural vegetation and hay, always rushes to greet us at the gate, and this morning even tried to help get it open by lifting the rope off the post using her mouth. It was probably just a random bit of 'mouthing' behaviour, but we like to pretend there was an intelligent intent behind it.

Over at the Walker's field, Simon took Valentine for another walk while I stayed behind with the other two. I get to have all the fun!

Actually, watching how the left-behind-ones behave is quite interesting, if a little bit anxiety-provoking. They always become very agitated when one of them is taken out, and if I keep them in the small enclosure near the gate, they pace around frantically, breathing heavily, humming in a high-pitched tone of uncertainty, looking as if they will try to jump over the fence at any second.

After the difficulty we had the last time Simon took Duc out, when Valentine and Ana tried to barge their way out of the gate to follow, I thought we'd better get them out of the catch pen before Simon got to open the main gate. So this morning that's what we did, with the result that, as soon as Simon and Valentine headed off down the track, Duc and Ana charged back into the field and up the hill and round to the side fence-line, as if trying to see where they had gone.

When llamas are running around at full pelt, particularly when they seem a bit anxious, they can be quite a scarey sight. The narrowness of the steep pathways they have forged between the various open areas on the land, make it impossible to easily get out of the way if you get caught midway when they decide to stampede down them.

This morning, when Duc and Ana had headed up the hill, I decided to lead them on to the open area on the other side where we could all see Simon and Valentine walking sedately round the wheat field in the distance. Which was fine, until they went out of sight again, whereupon, Duc decided to head off up even higher, with Ana in hot pursuit. (I really don't know what she would do left to her own devices - she seems to copy everything the boys do all the time. Sometimes I wonder if she might have a gender-identity crisis when she's a bit older).

As I knew Simon would shortly be coming back, I wanted to get back down to the catch-pen to be ready with a food treat for Valentine, and I calculated that, if I was quick about it, I could probably get down the steep narrow path before Duc and Ana came hurtling down behind me. I set off.

About half way down I heard the unmistakable sound of large animals thrashing through the undergrowth. I didn't turn to look. I started running.

But the undergrowth they were thrashing through was not behind me where I thought, but slightly to the side, and as I was running full speed down the hill, I suddenly came face to face with Ana, who had taken a short cut through the middle and was now galloping up the path, full speed towards me.

A nanosecond passed in which I visualised the inevitable consequences of the impact of two bodies accelerating toward each other at great velocity. GCSE physics equations sprang to mind.

Whilst unable to immediately halt my forward motion (I tell you, that hill is steep!), I continued onward and downward toward my doom. I shouted (in an oh-so-commanding, and a little-bit-scared-witless voice) "STOP!!".

Much to my relief, she did a cartoon-animal screech to a standstill, turning broadside on, with head up and ears back, and let out a loud clucking noise (of which Elif would have been proud). I suspect she had the same thoughts as me, when she saw me hurtling towards her. So, in llama vocabulary, I now believe that clucking means "Stop (where you are)". And when I think of the occasions on which Elif has used it near Pedro, it certainly has had the result of stopping him in his tracks. It's not so much a warning sound, as a direct command. If only French was as easy to understand as Llama.

Ah well, never a dull moment with llamas. Who said 'life's calmer with a llama'? They didn't know our llamas, obviously. Although, when they were all reunited and kushed down in their favourite spot after the morning's excitement, you'd think they were the zen-est creatures around. Appearances can be so deceptive.

Down Time

2008-07-25T19:07:00.005+02:00

It's a long time since I wrote anything on here. And before you ask, No, I haven't finished the Pooh Corner map yet, and Yes I feel guilty about leaving Simon to keep the blog up to date all on his own.

I'm in a bit of a motivationless morass at the moment. I'm just too hot and itchy (from insect bites) and tired (from waking up at night because I'm too hot and itchy) to be bothered to do anything. I can't help fantasizing about green, wet, cool places - even though I know that if I was in one, I'd be dreaming of being somewhere warm, dry and sunny. I guess some people are never happy!

So, just for the benefit of all those people who may be envious of our move to the idyllic, sunny rural life in Southern France, here are some of the things I miss about Derby:

Seeing the ducks on the lake in Markeaton Park.
Lakes.
Seeing my children every day.
Walking the dog in woods full of tall, leafy trees and blackbirds.
Tall, leafy trees.
Being able to pass a few moments idle conversation with a stranger in the check-out queue in a supermarket, without having to rehearse every sentence first.
Carpeted floors and inside window-ledges.
Dunelm Mills and B&Q.
Echinacea and Raspberry teabags and Simple moisturizer.
Knowing what people around me are talking about.
Knowing what people talking to me are talking about.
Being able to make jokes and take the mick.
Drizzle.
Abundant green gardens with rampant nasturtiums.
Being able to leave the back door open without worrying about the house filling with heat and insects.
Being able to sleep under a duvet without melting.
Being able to sleep.

Of course, I really don't miss having to go to work every day. I'd have to be insane to miss that. (Although I do miss the fun I used to have there, and the people that made it funny.)

And I don't miss the relentless sound of the A38, and the sporadic whine of police sirens. And all the chewing gum on all the paving slabs on all the pavements in town. And all the drunken yoofs doing The Mile, and leaving their chewing gum on all the paving slabs on all the pavements in town.

But just for the record – life in Roquetaillade isn’t all a bed of roses.

Fencing and neighbours

2008-07-25T13:38:00.003+02:00

We have the fence posts and the galvanised netting to construct a boundary around the garden. This is needed before we get the chickens, partly to keep away animals like dogs and foxes during the day, and partly to stop the chickens roaming into our neighbours' land. We particularly don't want to annoy the mayor, whose garden adjoins ours.

Also we don't want to worsen relationships with our other neighbour, whose son we are challenging for the right to buy the additional land. All very complex, but when we went to see the SAFER yesterday, we had a really useful conversation with one of their staff. He suggested that we should try to reach a compromise with our 'rival' as the two of us were the only people to have applied to buy the land. He's intending to set up a meeting with us both next week – so I need to have broached the topic with the rival before then.

Stress inducing, but I guess all will turn out well. The key is to be able to feel positively about whatever the outcome is . . . .

Anyway, we have also found that we can get chickens from the same supplier when he comes to Limoux (only 5 miles away) every Friday morning. This means that the arrival of the chickens has been postponed from this Saturday to the following Friday – and I have more time for the fencing. Very welcome, considering the current heatwave, which makes the idea of hard work outside in the middle of the day very unattractive!

Walk on . . .

2008-07-19T10:56:00.006+02:00

We're on a roll with the mass walking

This morning we went out again with Duc, Ana and Valentine. They seemed more relaxed - and so were we!

A really pleasant bit of training - and the llamas certainly enjoyed the reward when they got back to the field!

After the llamas . . . . .

2008-07-18T21:13:00.004+02:00

The hens are coming!

Sumi and I have built a mean hen house. Now all we need is some fencing, and then next Saturday we'll get the hens.

Anyone offering interesting recipes for eggs, courgettes and lettuce? - all of which are likely to be in surplus!

Success!

2008-07-18T18:37:00.002+02:00

The walk was fine!

With three of us, we were confident that we could take all three walking llamas out together. It all went remarkably smoothly . . . They all accepted having halters fitted after they had eaten their customary breakfast. Then, the new bit - leads attached - and all was still calm.

We set off down the track - Val leading with Duc, me in the middle with Valentine, and Sumi bringing up the rear with Ana. We had reasoned that this would be the most settling combination, and allow Sumi to have the smallest and least powerful llama.

This turned out not to be a brilliant idea. Ana has only been walked twice - and both times with me. By the time we reached the wheat field, she was getting pretty jumpy, and giving Sumi a hard time. Although Sumi was incredibly calm, a change was needed. She and I swapped llamas, and we turned them all round and headed for home.

The return went very smoothly, and they were soon unhaltered and relaxing with us on their favourite bit of the field. As you can see in the video, they were not exactly distressed after the first mass walk!

Let's go walking!

2008-07-18T09:01:00.003+02:00

This morning we are off to take the three walkers out for their first joint expedition. As my daughter Sumi is here staying with us, we have a chance to have all three out at once . . . . .

Who knows how this will work out? More later!

Tour de France

2008-07-17T19:32:00.001+02:00

Today Sumi and I went to see the Tour de France. For me this has become something of an annual event, as it always comes somewhere within easy reach of our village.

It's an amazing mixture of tatty commercialism and brief sighting of a mass of athletes. But it's such a French institution that somehow it carries it off successfully, and everyone who spectates seems to have a great time. One of the strangest features is the 'caravan' - a succession of bizarre floats advertising the Tour sponsors. From these, you get showered with freebies, like hats, keyrings, bags. And we came home with a shed-load, thanks to Sumi's enthusiastic dancing and waving . . .

The road is closed for about two hours, and the riders go by in about 40 seconds. And no-one minds!

A summer morning update

2008-07-02T11:28:00.011+02:00

It was a beautiful morning - at least it was before breakfast when we were up with the llamas, before it became really hot and windy . . . .

The three walkers (soon to be walkers in a real sense, if we can get ourselves organised for some expeditions next week when Lily and Alfie come to stay) are having a great time on the rough land. (Yes, I know, you're all waiting for Val's promised Pooh-corner map . . . . it's coming, slowly).

You can see that they've eaten and rolled their way to a nice flat area, where they spend much of the day surveying the countryside. They seem really relaxed together, and it's a very calm place to spend time.

Then on to the breeders . . .

You remember Pedro, the stud who suddenly attacked all male llamas in sight, and who would not let himself be touched by anyone?

Well, Val has been working her charms on him for a while now. And her skill and persistence has paid off, so that he will now (literally) eat out of her hand. More than that, she has managed to remove the halter he has been wearing since April. More even than that, he'll even allow a bit of a cuddle while he eats his breakfast!

Is there no end to this woman's talents?

Well, next she is to tackle aloof Elif, who is right at the top of the llama hierarchy, and makes all the others quiver with just a glance or a snort.

She's actually a beautiful llama, with a perfect straight back, and great poise.

She specialises in reaching the tender leaves high up in trees, and has recently taken to bending young oaks over with her neck, even allowing the other females to get in for a nibble while she holds the upper branches in reach.

I can't wait to see what sort of baby Elif produces. She is pregnant by Pedro, and should be giving birth sometime in August. Apparently, you know when females are within a few weeks of delivery when their teats enlarge. Of course, Elif is far too proud to allow anyone to get close for a look at her teats, so we can be seen occasionally sneaking up on her for a crafty glimpse. . . . .

Capucine, who really could do with a sibling to play with, still runs around like a loony most evenings. She manages to bounce across the field, as though she is using pogo sticks - video to follow, with luck, but so far we've just stood open-mouthed watching her perform! She is partially weaned, and eats hay and vegetation, but still doesn't take any concentrate from us. However, she is now very happy to be stroked each morning, and shows every sign of becoming as friendly and biddable as the delightful Ana.

Dog days

2008-07-01T16:02:00.010+02:00

It's very hot. Thanks to my new weather station - a brilliant gift from my son Mike - I know just how overpoweringly hot it is . . . . we thought yesterday was a bit much, but today is more than 3 degrees hotter at 34.7°. (If you're curious, you can see the experimental weather log on this webpage which opens in a new window, and there's a summary of current conditions in the column to the right of this blog.)

Our French teacher, the admirable Mme Gleizes, has taught us a range of words for this weather: I like 'un chaleur caniculaire'. La canicule is the French name for the hot weather that coincides with the long summer holiday that most French workers take, and the name has its origins in Latin - with the same root as the English word canine, to do with dogs.

Apparently, the ancient Romans noticed that the hottest days of the year, in July and early August, coincided with the appearance of Sirius - the Dog Star - in the same part of the sky as the Sun. Sirius is the largest and brightest star in the Canis Major constellation, in fact it is the brightest star in the sky. The ancients believed that the star contributed to the heat of the day. And so into French as la canicule, and into English as dog days . . . .

My etymological ramblings should convince you that either I've finally cracked up completely, or just that it's too hot in the middle of the day to do anything except stay fairly still in the shade. The llamas are behaving much the same, with 'the breeders' neatly slotted into the shade of the field shelter and 'the walkers' lying stretched out to catch as much breeze as possible. You'd have thought that it would be unbearable having a thick fur coat on all day, but they do seem to be coping better than we are. Their drinking rate has increased, meaning we have to make more trips up the hill with large water containers, but the walkers - who have loads of vegetation to browse - still seem to be getting most of their liquid through eating. Not for nothing are they members of the camel family!

Max, being a dog, loves the dog days. The hotter the better. As the sun moves around the house, so does he - so in the late afternoon, for him there's nowhere better than the balcony, where he can get fully exposed. He's not so good at walking any more, and rarely runs at all, but lying in the sun is really his specialist subject.

Meanwhile, I manage to dart out into the sun every now and again to water the flagging seedling vegetables. We're having a courgette glut, and are eating lettuce as fast as we can. The tomato crop should be good. If only I was a bit more organised, we would have a balanced diet. As it stands, we shall have to eat the various components of a good salad each in separate weeks. And I'm definitely losing out to the snails with the radishes and beetroot. My organic beliefs are being sorely tried by the rampant chewing of thousands of molluscs . . . . We hardly ever see any in action, because they have the knack of hiding away from the sun all day and then emerging to feast overnight. Any non-lethal ideas welcomed!

A Midsummer Day's Nightmare

2008-06-22T15:18:00.004+02:00

Yesterday was midsummer's day. Exactly six years since we bought this house, and set the ball rolling down the slope of fate toward our present destiny. In the evening, as on our very first night here in 2002, the village celebrated the summer solstice with many hours of wine, food and very bad french music at the Salles des Fetes.

I didn't join in. Nor, I think, did our friend and neighbour Giles (whose family were new to the village at least 30 years ago) and Veronica (his Chilean wife - who arrived here this March). Outsiders all.

Although I wish to learn to speak French (the lessons are going quite well), and to understand the local culture sufficiently well to be able to get through each day without causing offence, I feel no desire to become a fully 'integrated' member of this small society. Indeed, I think it would not be possible. To be a real part of this village, you would have to have been born here, as would your parents and their parents before them.

However, if we can but do no harm, and make no enemies, I will be content. And whilst there are times when I miss the anonymity of the city, and crave the isolation of the hermit, I still feel lucky, and enormously grateful for the life we have here.

Since I last wrote, the weather has turned hot as a very hot thing - between 30 and 33 degrees for most of the day - and not surprisingly, the llamas have got very thirsty. Typically, this hot, dry spell has neatly coincided with Simon's trip to England, which means Poor Weedy Me has total responsibility for getting vast quantities of water up to the two fields, morning and evening.
Of course, my paranoia about possible llama deaths from heat stress makes me want to keep checking they are all alright, so I'd be visiting them at least twice a day anyway. At least until
a) I am convinced that they really can cope with this climate, or
b) I can't be bothered any more. (This heat breeds an awesome degree of lethargy).

My visits have to be early in the morning or late in the evening, as any time in between is just too damned hot (I would probably die of heat stress, let alone the llamas). Taking this morning's quota of 30 litres between the two fields, I discovered that the increased call on the water supply is not just because the llamas are very thirsty. In fact, they seem to have taken to attempting cold baths in the water buckets to cool themselves down. I caught Valentine, Ana and Pedro all sticking their feet and heads right in the water, and splashing about like naughty children in a nursery. No wonder the water gets muddy so quickly.

Since I have yet to pluck up the courage to drive the land rover round to the rough land (given my luck with technological equipment, I'd almost certainly damage something in my amateur attempts to use the various knobs and gears to go off-road), I have been carrying the water for The Walkers all the way from the road near the Breeders. To make myself keep going when my neck and arm muscles are screaming in pain, and biting insects are sticking to the sweat on my forehead, I pretend I'm a marine in training, and fanatasize about how fit and strong I will become. I draw the line at chanting marine-type songs as I march though, for fear of drawing unwelcome attention from the locals that I pass along the way, out early pruning their vines before the sun gets too high.

Not much sign of the body beautiful yet though. Just stretched arms like an ape, sunburnt shoulders, and a face full of itchy, red spots. Oh, Simon is such a lucky man!

Anyway, in the absence of any real news (still no letter from the Notaire or SAFER....quelle surprise), and therefore of anything worth writing about, I have begun work on a "Pooh Corner type map" as suggested by Jane in her comment on the last post. If nothing else, it's an absorbing way to pass a few hot hours. Apart from that, I have passed the empty days while Simon is away failing to make cherry jam, failing to write poetry, and failing to meditate my way to enlightenment.

Sitting in the shade and solitude of the terrasse, looking out across the summer-filled valley to the distant wildness, is very conducive to the arising of profound and creative thoughts. Unfortunately, the soporific heat is not conducive to the embodiment of such thoughts in any form that requires physical or mental effort. Perhaps, after all, I'm just too idle to become enlightened.

Ah well. There's always the next life....

Just before I end this midsummer monologue, to return to the cartographic artwork, here's a thought I'd like to share...

Given the opportunity, would Buddha have meditated in a deck-chair?

The Waiting is Over

2008-06-19T13:08:00.004+02:00

Well. The 17 June arrived and so did the postlady. No post again. Nothing from the Notaire. Nothing from SAFER. Could it really be that this had all been a storm in a teacup?

Whilst beginning to believe that maybe our hopes and plans for the Big Land of our dreams might actually come to pass, I still could not entirely shake off the feeling that it wasn't over yet. My brother-in-law had warned us about the Last-Minute tendencies of French bureacracy (he had waited the regulation month to find out whether a planning application would be successful, and then received a letter on the very last day of the deadline informing him that it had been turned down), and the continued cheerful greetings of our land-purchase competitor had left me uneasy.

We occupied our minds with other things. We practised getting the breeding llamas in our smallest of small catch-pens, one at a time, as part of a desensitising process aimed at getting them to accept us haltering and unhaltering them.

Fatma didn't like it at all, and tried to get underneath the wooden gate construction to join her pals. Knowing that we had fixed the hinge problem, so that she couldn't just lift the gate up like Valentine had, so spectacularly, a few weeks ago, we waited for her to accept the inevitable and settle down. She didn't. She put her head under the gate, barged forward, broke the wood in half with a gut-wrenching cracking sound, and escaped to the relative freedom of the larger catch pen. She looked at us with a smugly smug expression on her smug llama face.

Foiled again. My god, these damn llamas are strong! And Fatma is the smallest and lightest of the adults! We looked in dismay at the destruction in front of us. It had taken a fair bit of time and effort to create that gate, and it had crumpled in a matter of seconds. We sighed. We tried to envisage our Plan B. I had a feeling it was not going to be a good day.

We returned to the house to nurse our emotional wounds and to wonder once again whether we could actually DO THIS. If we can't even keep a flighty llama in a small pen to halter it, how on earth are we ever going to trim their toe nails, or move them to another field? Cue another crisis of confidence....

Then ..... an insistent bang at the door. It had to be our friend and neighbour Giles (anyone else would ring the doorbell). Sure enough, there he stood, with a face full of thunder. "I come with the bad news..." he said. He had telephoned the Notaire, and had been told that they had just received (via a Court Bailiff) notification that SAFER was exercising its Droit de Preemption. They had had to deliver the notification this way, as they had left it too late to use the post. The Notaire's secretary had never known of such a last-minute intervention. (Hard to believe that somehow....).

A few minutes later Giles' father arrives. Yes it is true. SAFER are buying his land, and they will decide what happens to it. Giles is fuming. We try to be reassuring. "Never mind. It's not over yet. There will be a consultation process. We can still present our project". It feels as if the news has affected Giles more than us. Afterall, we've sort of been expecting this, and were surpised only that it hadn't happened earlier. "C'est la vie!" I venture, with a Gallic shrug, pleased at the opportunity to appropriately use one of my few French phrases. Giles is not impressed.

After they leave, we briefly contemplate the situation, before deciding not to think about it any more today. We'll let our underminds work away at it, while we enjoy a bit of gardening and bird-watching. It'll all be fine.

The next morning, while driving to the airport for Simon's trip to England, I confess to a childish sense of disappointment and resentment. I know that both are irrational, and also that I only feel disappointed because, having got right up to the deadline, I had started to believe that we might actually end up buying the land after all. And even though I had tried not to, I had started to plan how we would arrange and fence and use the land. I had begun to expect something. And therein lies suffering. Clearly I am a slow-learner in the Art of Living Happily.

However, I also know that there will come a time when we will look back and be pleased that things turned out the way they did. Because one lesson I have learnt is that blessings very frequently come in disguise.

So, for now we will explore all the options Mme Burgat's land has to offer, momentarily scale down our plans for our long-term llama breeding enterprise, and enjoy what we have here and now. And at the same time, we'll research the SAFER procedures from this point, decide what sort of case we want to make, and think about how we might do a deal with Mr Winemaker to at least try to keep the use of the Rough Land where our small herd of Walking Llamas are currently (very happily) spending their lazy days.

Another month. Another field to conquer.

2008-06-16T17:54:00.002+02:00

Last Friday dawned dull and drizzly. At 11.00am, after our morning visit to the llamas, we called at Mme Burgat's house as arranged. Despite the less-than-perfect weather, Mme Burgat insisted that we should still go to look at her land, and we duly whisked her off in our mud-covered land rover, following her directions along the slippy tracks until we got as far as we could in the car. Again, despite the fact that it was raining, and very muddy, and she was only wearing toeless, backless sandals and no coat, Mme Burgat insisted that she would be fine holding my arm and her walking stick, to proceed at a snail's pace down the last 100 meteres of undriveable track, to get to the entrance to her 'field'.

It has obviously been a very long time since she has been anywhere near it, and she was somewhat horrified to discover how overgrown it had become. In fact it was impossible to get into it without some serious 'debrousaillage' happening first, so after a difficult (and a bit scarey) turning manoevre, we returned to Mme Burgat's house, to look at her very big, very old cadastral plans of the bits of land she owns, and to hear the stories of her husband's love of the countryside, and his sudden death aged 59yrs, while out in the countryside, collecting snails.

When Sunday arrived with a bit of sunshine, Simon headed off to Mme Burgat's field with his trusty brush-cutter, while I did the rounds with our dog Max, to visit and feed the llamas. When I eventually arrived at Mme Burgat's field, Simon had managed to cut a narrow path through the blackthorn, down one side of the field.

I approached with a sinking heart, realising that, if we agreed to use this land, another big load of hot and difficult work lay ahead of us before it would be fit for llama occupation. Simon, in a more optimistic mood, struck out through the middle of the sea of blackthorn, heading for the middle of the enclosure, to see if there was any open, grassy space that would make the land usable. I looked for a shady spot to leave the dog, while getting the tree-loppers and camera from the car. Then, (clearly determined that Simon should not continue to be cheerful while I was feeling so depressed) I very cleverly managed to shut the heavy back door of the land rover, on his camera. Twice.

I honestly didn't do it on purpose - I had put it down whilst faffing with the dog, forgotten it was there, and tried to shut the door. When the door jammed the first time, I didn't see what had stopped it shutting, and so slammed it again even harder. When it STILL didn't shut, I looked again more carefully, and then noticed a little black (slightly crushed) object that I realised, with horror, was the camera in its leather case. With sweating hands, I took it out the case, hoping beyond hope that by some miracle of anti-physics that it would have survived the double blow intact. (I can be stupidly optimistic sometimes). I stared at the strange purple-yellow patterns on the digital screen, recognising the telltale signs of terminal screen-crack. It looked just like the broken screen on the car battery solar-charger that I had managed to squash when loading the car back in March. I switched it on, and the moving parts moved. Perhaps, since it also has a viewfinder, it might still be possible to take photos?

A few sick moments passed while I debated putting the camera back where I'd found it and pretending to know nothing about it, or perhaps telling Simon that the wind had blown the door shut on it. How could I have been so stupid and clumsy? How could this not totally spoil his day?
Of course, the childish urge to avoid taking reponsibility for my actions quickly passed, and I shambled back down the blackthorn-strewn path-of-doom to confess my sin.

Simon, bless him, was cool as a cucumber about it. Lessons in non-attachment seem to come along thick and fast these days. I swear that despite all my worthy efforts at self-improvement, Simon is racing ahead of me along the path of enlightenment, without even trying.

Anyway, I followed him through the second prickly lane he had cut, to the centre of the field, where the blackthorn thicket gradually gave way to a forest of ash saplings and some very long grass. I took a couple of photos using the view-finder to frame the pictures, and discovered that the zoom didn't work either. (Bum. It won't be as simple as just getting a new screen for it off ebay, then!)

Standing in the middle of this 'clearing' it was hard to see the boundaries, and it became obvious that fencing this land would not be as straightforward as we might have hoped. But then it never is!

I guess we'll manage. It'll be hard, but it'll get done and the difficulty will pass. At least the land is only gently sloping, rather than steep, and is pretty much rectangular.

And Mme Burgat will be so very pleased to see it brought back from the brink of blackthorn annihilation, and used again as animal pasture, as it was when she and her husband were young and full of dreams.

And we still have another area of her land to go and look at, as soon as the weather is reliably dry, and the tracks up the hillside to the south of the village are passable enough for an old lady to engage in another countryside trip down memory lane.

Relocation update

2008-06-12T16:26:00.009+02:00

I was worried last night that Ana would not have settled down with Duc/Valentine. Things started well, but deteriorated. This video shows them tolerating each other - but then at 32 seconds there is the best shot I have seen of a llama spitting to warn another off.

Everyone seems to know that llamas spit - and we have learned that there are many degrees and types of this behaviour (that's got to be worth a post of its own in due course). This case was at the mildest end, and Duc was only being assertive about his personal space. However, by mid afternoon, Ana was refusing to stay near the other two, and she would not come to me for any tempting food either. I returned several times to the field and eventually, late in the evening, I was delighted to see the three of them grazing together.

This morning, all three were quickly down to the catch pen to eat some concentrate. Although there was obviously still some tension, they were content to be in a pretty small space together, and all three allowed us to touch them.

When they had eaten a snack, they were happy to return to the field as a group.

Ana does seem to be settling in. Within a week I think theyll be hanging round together like best mates . . . .

Expect nothing. Live frugally, on surprise.

2008-06-12T15:17:00.007+02:00

I am very fond of passing the odd moment perusing internet sites for interesting quotes about Life, The Universe and Everything. Yesterday, I happened to be reading through a few quotes about Life on http://www.wisdomquotes.com/, searching for a suitably pithy response to the comments on my last post, when I came across the title of this post as a quote from a poem by Alice Walker. I shared it with Simon, who was disappointingly underwhelmed by my discovery, and for one reason or another (oh yes, we were busy moving Ana!) never got round to posting it, or indeed any other comment, on the blog.

Although I have in the past thought of myself as someone who doesn't like surprises, experience would suggest that I have been fooling myself. Much to my surprise, for example, I thoroughly enjoyed the surprise 50th birthday celebration, and the surprise Leaving Work celebration that my erstwhile Team colleagues arranged for me - the latter of which (for the information of readers who aren't erstwhile Team colleagues) was a formative and never-to-be-forgotten afternoon of llama-interaction, (along with some extremely silly party games involving space-hoppers and the like).

I suppose that, to enjoy surprises, one has to be comfortable with not being in control of things. Of course, the converse of this, is that once you realise and accept the fact that you really are not in control of your destiny, you open the door to the Unexpected, and can experience the joy of constantly being surprised by what Life throws your way.

And so to the point.....

A little while ago, the doorbell rang - always an ominous sound in this house, as we know that opening the door will result in some sort of difficult, and unprepared-for conversation in French. There is always a tense delay in our response, as Simon and I try to out-slow each other in getting up and going to open the door. Today I won, and carried on pretending to be busy, while Simon opened the door to find Mme Burgat standing there, frailly propped up on a walking stick.

We last saw Mme Burgat in December last year when, following a comment from our neighbour that she might have some land for sale, we bravely knocked on her door to ask her about it. At the time, she was virtually bedridden because of problems with her legs, but was very welcoming and friendly all the same. Unfortunately though, she had already sold the field in question to 'The Belgians' (whoever they may be). She did mention that she might have some other land she could sell, and said she would get her grandson to contact us.

The days, weeks and months went by. We didn't hear from her grandson, and having since become aware of all the difficulties and feuds associated with the buying and using of agricultural land in this village, assumed that we never would. In fact, we had forgotten all about it.

And then suddenly, in the midst of all of our uncertainty about what is happening about the land we thought we were going to buy from our neighbour's father, up pops Mme Burgat on our doorstep, and she wants to offer us some land for the llamas.

It turns out that she has been in hospital for four months, after breaking her femur when trying to move from her bed to her chair, and has had lots of operations on her legs. She is now recovering and, determined that she will not become bedridden again, she is making herself get up and walk. And today she decided she would attempt the walk up through the village to find our house and ask us if we still want to look at her land.

So, tomorrow at 11.00am, we are going with her who knows where in our car, to look at what she has to offer. And in the meantime, our neighbour has contacted the Notaire's secretary to find out the actual deadline by which SAFER have to respond, if they are going to intervene in our purchase of his father's land, and it turns out that the deadline date is 17th June. Five days to go, and still nothing so far.

Strangely these days of Uncertainty are beginning to feel like moments to savour. Until we know for sure, absolutely anything is possible. So I will continue to Expect nothing, and live frugally, on surprise.

Relocation, relocation, relocation

2008-06-11T23:00:00.001+02:00

Our client this week is a young female llama. Tired of living with the older residents in her current field, Ana is looking to strike out on her own, and perhaps find suitable accommodation with a group of young llamas who will be more interesting company for a girl approaching adulthood. Little does she realise how soon her wishes will come true . . . .

We had decided that Ana needed to be removed from Pedro’s harem, before she actually reached maturity. Having finished the construction of a new catch pen on the Rough Land, we knew that there was no good reason to delay – even though we were very uncertain of how Ana would react.

The potential problem was that, as far as we know, Ana had only ever had a lead on her once. This was when she first arrived at our land, and I led her from Mike’s horsebox. She had not reacted well to the experience, and she had danced around, jumping and pulling all the way.

In preparation for the impending move, Val had very successfully fitted her with an adapted halter and I have been working hard over the last couple of weeks to develop a close relationship with Ana, hoping that this would help her to accept the trauma I was about to inflict.

So, early this morning, after completing the normal feeding routine, we ushered all the other llamas out of the catch pen, and I casually slipped a lead on to Ana’s halter. No reaction from her. So far, so good.

The other llamas knew something was going on. They were just outside the catch pen, and tensions were clearly rising. Lots of clucking and some spitting. Time to get moving before the distress spread to Ana . . .

Unfortunately, Ana did not share this view. When a llama doesn’t want to move, they don’t dig their heels in . . . . . they use their long pointed toes. With all her weight leaning backwards, and four pairs of toes firmly planted in the ground, she clearly did not intend to leave the security of her home field!

Of course, I had to win, but I couldn’t drag her for any distance. She was resisting as hard as she could, and she was starting to get pretty stressed. Somehow I managed to get her a few feet down the steep slope out of the field gate. Time seemed to stand still, and I was able to concentrate wholly on this poor frightened, struggling creature. All of the stress I had felt in advance faded away, and I was suddenly much more confident. This seemed to communicate to Ana, and she gave way a little. We progressed down to the road in a stuttering series of stand offs – she resisted, and then she gave a little. As soon as she moved, I relaxed the pressure on the lead and praised her. As soon as she pulled back, I increased my pull.

Ana is a very clever llama and she was learning fast. Our stop-start progress continued down the short stretch of tarmac road till we could turn off down the side of a vineyard. Now we could all relax more – and Val was able to stop acting as traffic lookout and guard, and take some video.

As you can see, after her very hesitant start, Ana became increasingly more confident, until she actually wanted to take the lead as we eventually reached the Rough Land, where the other llamas were waiting, excited by her approach.

At this point, I had no idea whether she would settle down in the new field, but I was on a real high. Perhaps we really can do this llama rearing business. Yes, all I’ve done is move one untrained llama between two fields . . . . but it feels like a huge step forward.

The Age of Uncertainty

2008-06-10T14:03:00.005+02:00

These are uncertain times.

Two months ago we signed the 'compromis de vente' for the 8 hectares of land around the village, that we are hoping to buy for our llamas to graze. When we first discussed the possible purchase with the present owner, we were aware that that much of the land was currently being used by a local wine-maker (who also grows wheat and sunflowers on a big scale), who would therefore have first option to buy the land. However, when he was offered the possibility of buying the land he was using, he said he didn't want to.

Even so, we knew that that any sale of agricultural land in France would be subject to a complex bureaucratic system designed to prevent the break-up of viable farms, to protect the rights of tenant farmers, and to ensure that such land remains in agricultural use, within the terms of the local agricultural 'development plan'. So, after our visit to the Notaire to sign the pre-purchase contract, the paperwork was duly sent off to SAFER (Societe d'Amenagement Foncier et Etablissement Rural), who then had two months within which to decide whether to exercise their 'Droit de Preemption' to intervene in the sale and buy the land themeselves, before either selling it or renting it to a farmer of their choice. Obviously that description is a massive simplification of what seems to be an enormously complex and much misunderstood process. (Needless to say, this has providied Simon with an opportunity to utilise his famous and well-developed internet searching/legal-document-small-print reading skills). But the long and the short of it all is that our purchase of the land is not guaranteed until the two month deadline has passed, without such an intervention occurring.

Well now, that all sounds very dull and boring I know. But the situation it has stirred up in our sleepy little village is far from dull!

The first inkling we had that things would not be as straightforward as the Notaire had implied they would be, was when we were out on the Rough Land busy erecting fencing, in those hot and strenuous days a few weeks back, before we moved Duc and Valentine. A nice guy called Remy, turned up out of the blue in his 4x4 Pick-Up, to introduce himself to us as the village representative on SAFER. He came to suggest that we might not want to do too much work on the land, as it was by far from certain that we would be able to buy it. In fact, he told us, he had met with all the local 'agriculteurs', and they had raised objections to us buying the land, on the grounds that it would split up the land that is already being worked by one of them.

Despite all the work we had already put in on the Rough Land, and all the mental planning we had done about how we would use the rest of the land when the purchase was complete, our response was admirably laid back. 'Yes, we understood', we said. 'Yes, we'd happily come to a meeting, and present our 'Project''. 'Thanks for letting us know' etc etc. And when he'd gone, we carried on with the fencing. After all, we had no choice at that point. We simply had to move Duc and Valentine, regardless of how things might turn out in the future.

Since then we have waited. We have waited and listened to the angry outpourings of the son of the current land owner, who has regaled us with tales of the extensive history of village, inter-family disputes over land, and unpaid rent, and boundaries, and rights of way. We have waited and been friendly to everyone we have met, regardless of which side of the dispute they occupied. We have waited quietly, without taking any pre-emptive action whatsoever, to see what will happen. Apparently, the wine-maker who uses the land has decided he does now want to buy the land. Apparently, the village welcomes our llamas and wants to make sure we'll be alright, even if we can't buy the land. Apparently, the wine-maker can't raise the money to buy the land. Apparently SAFER will buy it. Apparently SAFER won't buy it.

Rumours and speculation abound. The days pass. We visit the llamas. We take them hay, and water, and collect their poo. We walk up and down the hill, Bonjouring and Bonsoiring to all and sundry. We wait. We notice that the Mr Winemaker and his father are becoming more expansive in their greetings and more frequent in their Bonjours. We wonder what they are thinking. We wait some more.

Then last Friday, when we were unloading shopping from the car, Mr Winemaker approached Simon. 'About the land..... , I'm sorry but I don't speak English, you understand yes? About the land....I have a proposal for you.....' He went on to explain that he wanted to buy the land, and although nothing was certain, if he did buy it, he realised we would be left with nothing for the llamas. In that case, he could lend us 6 hectares of land that he owns but is not using. He gestured across the valley to a wild hillside about a kilometre distant. We could use it free, for a number of years. He may wish to put a horse on it later when his daughter grows up. He would give us a year's notice if he needed us to move off it. We could go and have a look at it with his father.

And so the next day we duly went for a long land rover drive to reach the land, and have a long walk around it. We learnt a lot about the history of the village and the guy's family, and about the soil and the vegetation. We thought the land was lovely in many ways (a beautiful remote spot with larks singing and just the sort of land llamas would be happy to roam), but very hard to get to, with no water supply, and no obvious level spaces for building shelters. We said we'd need to think about it.

And we have thought about it, and waited. We wait for the postlady every day. Will a letter from SAFER arrive today? No, not yet. Will Mr Winemaker tell us he can buy the land? No, not yet. The landowner's son - our friend and neighbour - waits with us. He pops over every other day to see if we have heard anything. He really does not want Mr Winemaker to buy the land. We count the days. SAFER's two month slot started from the date they received the paperwork, but we don't know when exactly that was.

Two months have passed since we signed the contract. Surely it can only be a few more days now. But there is still nothing we can do except wait. Wait and See.

Of course, if we do end up buying the land, does this mean that Mr Winemaker won't like us any more? How can we make him feel OK about us taking some of his livelihood away from him? And if he buys the land, will our friend and neighbour ever forgive us for not putting up more of a fight to ensure his father's land didn't fall into enemy hands?

As always, Life is Uncertain. The future remains a mystery. I wonder what we'll be doing a month from now. I guess we'll just have to Wait and See.

C'est la Fête des Vignerons!

2008-06-07T12:47:00.005+02:00

Saturday 7 June has arrived. A Big Day for a Little Village.

Over the last few days everyone has been busy tidying their gardens and frontages, and all the verges have been neatly mown and flailed. The messy stacks of wooden pallets and crates that generally litter the area outside any working Cave have been piled out of sight, and tractor trailers have been decorated, somewhat randomly and inexplicably, with bunches of flowering Scotch Broom. Willy, the village's employed doer-of-odd-jobs-and public-works, has been busy distributing various items of display equipment and metal railings around and about, and busy-looking women have been busily carrying busy-looking bundles of goodness-knows-what into the village hall.

Today is the festival of the Fleur de Vigne. There will be a painting competition and exhibitions of paintings in the village wine Caves. There will be food in the main square, and music from 'L'Art a Tatouille'. And in the evening, the local wine-makers will open their Caves to the public for visits and tastings and general wine-induced merriment.

And, if good sense and a lack of time for preparation hadn't inhibited us, there would have been llamas in an enclosure outside the Castle, with two friendly English idiots attempting to provide interesting facts about llamas to the hordes of curious visitors, whilst simultaneously advertising their new 'lamas-balades' business.

This was in fact the suggestion made by the enthusiastic wine-maker, whose Cave is situated opposite our front door, and who saw the opportunity to attract more visitors to his neck of the village's wine-selling woods, through the artful placement of a couple of alluring llamas in a small enclosure in the road between our house and his Cave. And for a few insane moments we were indeed tempted.

"Would the big, empty wine crates work as a fence? Perhaps the Mayor could lend us some metal barriers. Could we tether the llamas on the grass verge? Wouldn't it be a wonderful opportunity for us to publicize our enterprise? Wouldn't it be good for us to integrate into the village activity?" But even as we nodded and smiled and "oui"d, and started to contemplate the logistics of getting the llamas down the long road from the field and past the gauntlet of local loose and barkful dogs, my mind began creating the familiar images of horror and chaos.

What if the llamas were frightened by all the people and jumped out of the enclosure? What if they ran amok through the village, trailing trashed wine-display tables and art exhibitions in their wake? What if they trampled small poodles or tiny enfants? What if they spooked, and jumped off the cliff at the end of our road, and died agonising and screech-ridden deaths below hundreds of traumatised on-lookers?

After a night 'sleeping on it' (or not), we thanked the enterprising suggester for his tres bon idea, but declined to take up his suggestion on this occasion. "We need to do more training with the llamas. They are not ready, just yet. They would be frightened by so many people. They are still a bit wild. Thank you for your kind offer of help. Perhaps next time....."

And so the Big Day will pass without an unusual contribution from 'those English with the llamas'. And if the weather doesn't perk up a bit soon, it will probably pass without much of a contribution from the 'artistes passionnes' or even the general public. 15 degrees, a strong north-westerly wind and showers is not what you'd expect for a June fete in the south of France. Sounds more like a school summer fair in Derby, actually. Perhaps in the absence of the interesting llama display, we should offer ourselves up to have cold, wet sponges thrown at our heads instead.

A Nightingale sang.....

2008-06-04T19:47:00.000+02:00

....but not in Berkeley Square.

Here is just a little (aural) glimpse of some of the loveliness of the valley below Roquetaillade that we are lucky enough to experience every day.

Sometimes, when we have stopped our daily travail for a relaxing bit of lunch on the terrasse, it is very hard to pull ourselves away from just sitting and looking and listening.

Despite the ups and downs of our challenging new life, I haven't experienced such a general sense of calm and well-being since...., well, actually, since I was taking Seroxat about 10 years ago, to deal with work-induced stress!! I'm anticipating that this current approach to raising Seratonin levels won't be accompanied by unpleasant or harmful side effects, (an increased risk of suicide seems exceedingly unlikely).

The Passing of Childhood

2008-06-02T19:49:00.017+02:00

As with humans, so with llamas.

Babies don't stay babies for long, and (even though the experience at the time feels otherwise) teenagers don't stay teenagers for long.

Capucine is growing rapidly and developing her very own personality along the way. She is still incredibly fluffy and endearing in her bounciness, but she is now eating hay, grass and small trees, and drinking water from the bucket, just like a proper grown-up. Of course, she is still drinking Mum's milk whenever she wants, but she spends increasingly less time hanging around her.

Her favourite companions at the moment are Ana, who is still childish enough to join in with Capucine's silly games, and Pedro, who is an irresistible target for much of Capucine's more physical behaviour. She loves to jump on him, and barge him (often when the poor guy is trying to concentrate on eating his daily portion of concentrate food), and generally get under his feet. For a big, macho stud, he is surprisingly tolerant of Capucine's antics.

Whilst we cannot help but feel a little sad at the loss of Capucine's babyhood, the sadness is offset by fact that she is becoming more interesting as she gets older. It's a funny thing, but now, when we look her in the eye, it feels much more as if there is 'somebody home' - as if there is something going on inside her head. Already the time has come for her to start school, and begin the long, slow process of training that will hopefully shape her into an approachable, amenable llama who will let us halter her, groom her coat and touch her feet.

Ana meanwhile has reached that difficult stage that all sensible parents dread. Adolescence! Yes she likes to run around playing 'let's pretend we're being chased by a puma', with Capucine. But she also likes to put on her make-up and prance around in high heels in front of Pedro. Whilst this is all perfectly normal, and only to be expected, we have noticed lately that Pedro actually seems to be taking more than just a paternal interest in this behaviour of hers. He is becoming quite possessive of her, and gets pretty stroppy when she shares her affectionate attentions with anyone other than him. So whenever we spend a lot of time with her, stroking her neck, and generally taking advantage of the fact that she is such an amazingly friendly and trusting llama, he responds with a bit of bargey posturing, and dominance-reinforcing behaviour. At present, luckily for us, such behaviour is aimed only at Ana, and in response she duly tucks her tail submissively over her back, and say's sorry. Not quite a proper teenager yet, I guess.

More worryingly though, Pedro is showing increasing interest in Ana's rear end. She will insist on parading it around under his nose of course, and with Fatma and Elif both being 'unavailable' to him, (and giving him a hard time, as pregnant women do!), you can't blame the poor lad for checking out the possibilities. But there is a real chance that she could become fertile within the next month or so, and we really, really don't want a teenage pregnancy on our hands. So, having put off the day for as long as we sensibly could, the time has finally come for Ana to leave home, and take up residence in Duc and Valentine's batchelor pad.

With this end in mind we have cleverly trained Ana to accept having a halter put on her. So cleverly trained in fact that, in contrast to all the shenanigans that are necessary to get a halter on (or indeed off) any of the other llamas, we can simply walk up to her in the field and put it on her. I'd love to think this is the successful result of my careful training with the halter-in-the-food-bucket method, but I suspect that she's just a very Easy llama (in all senses of the word!).

Of course, none of the halters we have were small enough for her elegantly narrow head, and the first two occasions of halter-application resulted in her sliding it off her head and down her neck, during her frequent sticking-the-neck-through-the-fence antics when grazing on the out-of-reach yummy grass. So, with some sharp scissors and a piece of hot wire, I modified the halter and, third time lucky, she is now the proud owner and wearer of the customized halter that will hopefully enable us to walk her sedately (ha) over to the Rough Land, on the day of our choosing.

Capucine seems to think Ana's halter has been put there for her playful benefit, and she likes to get hold of bits of it to chew. She will certainly miss Ana when she leaves home. But, hopefully, in only a couple of month's time, she will have a young sibling to play with, and she will take her turn at being older sister for a change.

Meanwhile, Pedro will just have to put up with his lot as the hen-pecked male, subject to Elif's stroppy looks and Fatma's snorts, which effectively keep him away from any food (or anything at all) until they say it's alright for him to get a look-in.

No prospect of a shag until after Elif offloads her baby in August (gosh - we can't wait to see him trying to mate with aloof Elif, Queen of the Castle and Mistress of Acrimony), and no chance of exploring the nubile possibilities of Ana, until she returns from the Rough Land Finishing School late next year.

A hard life?

2008-06-02T19:19:00.002+02:00

Short-lived beauty

2008-05-26T09:18:00.004+02:00

I have commented before on the range of 'nature' that surrounds us here. We also often admire the efficiency of French public services from which we benefit. Today, I experienced a conflict between these two good aspects of our new life.

Walking up the hill to the llamas, I spotted a bee orchid growing on the roadside. These were rare sightings on the chalk downs of my childhood, but apparently are pretty common around the Mediterranean. Their amazing flowers are remarkably like bees in appearance, and it appears that they fool bees into attempting to mate with them, and so pollen gets transferred and the flowers fertilised. According to scientist Richard Dawkins, bees in the past have caused the evolution of bee orchids. Male bees, over many generations of cumulative orchid evolution, have built up the bee-like shape through trying to copulate with flowers that look most convincingly like bees, and hence carrying their pollen.

On returning home, I got out my camera and took some pictures (including the one here).

Within minutes, along come a pair of large tractors, with high-tech flail mowers, and neatly trim all the road verges within the village boundary. And yes, the orchid is gone . . . .

Such are the contradictions of life. Perhaps the orchid could only grow where the grass was shorter, because of previous mowing.

The Mystery of the Absconding Llama

2008-05-24T14:51:00.007+02:00

Simon has just emerged from the recently organised garage (there is now cat-swinging room, at last) where he has been employing his new-found joinery skills in the reconstruction of the sorry wardrobe that fared somewhat disastrously in the infamous trailer trip to our dream life. Apparently, I was meant to be doing a llama-related blog, to update folks on the post-escape situation, rather than indulging in a personal, (although literary) rambling on the nature of Past, Present and Parenthood. So....

Since my return to Roquetaillade on Monday, things have been as they should be. It is tempting to fantasize that Valentine had missed me during my five-day absence, and was looking for me when he escaped, but even egocentric me recognizes this as a bit unlikely. However, his Houdini-like escapades remain a mystery.

We have still found no evidence of fence-breaching, and the possibility that an uninvited visitor may have either accidentally or deliberately let him out of the gate is a possibility from the Realm of Paranoia, which we refuse to entertain. Given that Valentine appears to be a 'follower' rather than an independent spirit, we can only therefore conclude that:

a) it was a freak occurrence, (such as him rolling downhill when taking a dust-bath and inadvertently sliding underneath the bottom wire), or
b) he was spooked by something (recollections of low-grunting noises spring to mind) and jumped over the fence in panic.

Faced with the prospect of yet another hot, hard day's work adding two more lines of wire around the whole perimeter to make the fence 'more secure', I attempted to discourage Simon from this (his favoured) course of action on the grounds that, if it was a) above, it would be unlikely to happen again, and if it was b) adding intermediate wires would do nothing to stop him jumping over the top.

So Simon settled for putting in some extra wires in the area near the gate, (where the relative flatness of the land, and the open area outside the fence, made a potential 'squeezing-through-the-gap escape' seem remotely more possible) and rather than risk wasting further energy on pointless, knee-jerk reactions, we agreed to 'monitor the situation'. I've always been a fan of the Wait-and-See approach to Life's apparently troubling events. But then I am naturally very lazy (not always a bad thing), and I wasn't here last Sunday to suffer, first-hand, the immediate panic induced by Valentine's extra-curricular activities, and so was less concerned than Simon about potential worry-related sleep loss.

Every day since then, on our regular visits to supply Duc and Valentine with llama-style junk food and human interaction, we have approached their home ground with varying degrees of trepidation. And, as if to string out this wherethehellarethey? moment for us as long as possible, the little beasties have taken to hiding deep in the undergrowth, right at the furthest, highest extreme of the land.

To be fair, they do (generally) come bounding down the land in response to the enticing sound of grain rattling in a bucket, or even, on a good day, to the hearty call of "Here, Llamas!" But there are the odd times when, for what seems like an eternity, we can only spy one bundle of whitish wool in the sea of green, and the adrenalin meter starts to buzz. Oh, for an open field of flat grass. Or a small-holding where all the fields are inside your own land boundaries.

Still, as we so often seem to be saying these days, so far, so good. They are both still there, still healthy (Valentine's injured foot looks better and better each day), and still happy to come to us when summoned. The next step (groan - more work!) is to build a catch-pen near their gate, and get into the regular practice of taking them for walks (which, after-all, was meant to be the whole goddamn point of all this!).

The other llamas are behaving impeccably in their accustomed llama style. Elif is still being aloof, and being a dominatrix par excellence. Pedro is still being more aloof than Elif, cultivating his Clint Eastwood 'Man Alone' persona, which is only slightly marred by his tendency to run like a scared rabbit whenever we approach him with outstretched arms. Fatma continues to eat like a vacuum-cleaner, to resist Pedro's further attempts at romantic coupling, and to fart spectacularly whenever silence decends. Anna continues to be utterly approachable and adorable, and has recently discovered that she can get her whole neck, up to her shoulders, through the third square down in the wire fence, and can therefore happily graze on all the low-down greenery outside, that is unreachable by the rest of the gang.

And little Capucine gets bigger every day, eating grass and hay as well as her mother's milk, and continues to terrorize all the others with her relentless and childish antics. Only she can jump repeatedly on Pedro's back and remain unscathed. Only she can lean on Elif's legs and not be spat at. Only she can stop grown men in their tractors, as she races wildly along the fence line and pirouettes in the dust bowl, like Bambi in a woolly baby-gro.

So, we still have to clip Pedro's toe-nails (somehow), and get Anna over to the Rough Land, and pour Pour-On anti-parasite stuff on to all their flighty backs. Oh and there's the garden to fence, and the chicken-house to build.....

And there was silly me thinking I had time to sit and read great works of French literature.

Remembrance of Things Past

2008-05-24T13:25:00.006+02:00

Saturday again. The weekend. Strangely, one of the things I miss about not being at work, is looking forward to the weekend. Since, every day, we can choose (llama-crises excepted) how to spend our time, the weekends are notable only by the reduction in the commuting traffic (three cars a day passing by, rather than twenty) and in the amount of agricultural work carried out around us.

Today is a lovely, quiet day. Not lovely in the English sense of perfect blue skies and uninterrupted sunshine (which, let's face it, can get boring after a while), but lovely because it is just the right sort of day for sitting and doing nothing at all, except watching the light shift and change as gentle showers pass over, followed by bright sunshine that steams the roof and intensifies the birdsong. Distant thunder rolls lazily over the hills. Not a breath of wind.

Sitting under the awning on the terrace, listening to the rain spattering on the canvas, evokes nostalgia for camping experiences of the past. Just as yesterday's balmy evening heat and cicadas in the pine trees brought back memories of long-ago south-of-France holidays. How is it possible to feel nostalgia for something one still has? Maybe it's simply that a true appreciation of the present comes hand in hand with an awareness of its transience.

I've done quite a lot of nothing since getting back here last Monday, after a busy few days in Derby, cramming six weeks worth of mothering into a five day visit to my children. Despite the fact that I was amply able to fill my time with household chores, clothes-washing and shopping, the return to find my children managing very-well-thankyou without the constant ministrations of their mother did a little to ease the guilt I feel at having deserted them for my new life in France, and gave rise to the realisation of my increasing superfluousness to their lives.

They are 'my children' no longer. They are young adults with lives of their own, making their own choices, forging their own destinies, and doing things 'their way'. They have survived without my constant reminders to 'not drink too much' when they go out, to take their phone/keys with them, to water the plants and to put the bin out on Wednesday morning. Whilst I'm sure the shopping and washing I did for them during my visit was greatly appreciated, it was none-the-less a treat, rather than essential to their well-being.

Perhaps it is the dawning of this realisation, and a sense of having to let go of the past, that has conjured up those recent experiences of nostalgia. The hardest thing about being a parent is learning how to not keep being one.

"Your children are not your children. They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself....You may give them your love, but not your thoughts, For they have their own thoughts. You may house their bodies but not their souls. For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams. You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you. For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday...." (Kahlil Gibran).

Maybe, all this time for doing nothing, is the time for going 'A la Recherche du Temps Perdu'. Maybe, at last (llama-crises excepted) I have time in my life for Proust.

The Great Escape

2008-05-20T17:09:00.013+02:00

In which Valentine plays the role immortalised by Steve McQueen (but without the bike) . . . . .

On Sunday afternoon, I was peacefully gardening, using earphones and my mp3 player to block out the sound of a group of British artists who had encamped alongside our house for the day (there are downsides to having a lovely view!) Unexpectedly, Linda (Val's sister) and Pete, and their son Will and daughter-in-law Tabitha arrived for a quick look at the llamas.

So, we pop up to the field, and I am happily explaining the character of llamas while we offer them goodies over the gate. And then, I turn round and see the unbelievable sight of another llama walking up the road outside the field!

It's Valentine. Within seconds, while I'm still trying to work out how he could have got here, he's climbed the bank and all the other llamas are rushing forward to greet him at the fence. Well, not quite, as Pedro is attempting to bite lumps out of him, and all hell is breaking loose.

Another one of those adrenalin-laden periods follows. I rush out of the field and somehow climb the bank. Putting myself between Valentine and Pedro seems too much of a challenge, as I am poised on a narrow path at the top of a two metre drop - and they are concentrating solely on their own conflict. So, I just grab Valentine's halter, and half throw myself back down the path. He follows - he doesn't really have any choice - and he has to give his attention now to preventing himself from falling down the bank on top of me!

Having gained the initiative, I frog march Valentine round into the catch-pen at the bottom of the field. At the same time, I'm shouting instructions to everyone else. "Linda, you block that gap and stop Pedro coming down! I don't think he'll push you out of the way." "Pete, you go and get some wire, and tools from the house, to fix the fence to separate the field again. And some llama leads and some food!"

Having got Valentine secure, I can contemplate the situation. Obviously he's feeling pretty sorry for himself, as having come round to see the old gang, Pedro's roughed him up again. I realise that the situation might still be far from under control - Valentine never goes anywhere without Duc, and yet here he is on his own. Where's Duc? Do we have another llama/vineyard potential devastation scenario? Pete returns and I set off running to the rough land, carrying food and a lead.

I reach the gate to the rough land, and my heart is hammering away. Not just the running - but the realisation that there's no sign of Duc.

I'm starting to panic now, and can't really work out what to do next. And then, as I climb further up the field, I spot him right at the top of the slope, inside the fence, happily foraging among the bushes. He hasn't escaped after all!

I persuade Duc to come down to the gate, by tempting him with concentrate food. There's no sign of how Valentine escaped, and Duc seems very calm. I decide that I need to take him to secure accommodation with Valentine, until I can work out how the escape happened.

Great idea. Only problem is - Duc's having none of it. There's no way he's going to let me put a lead on him. And as we haven't got a catch pen in this land yet, I've got no chance of making him go along with my wonderful plan.

As I sit there, giving Duc small handfuls of food, which he carefully takes with his neck fully extended, ready to jerk away the instant I make any move with the lead, I realise I need a Plan B . . . .

I can't leave Duc on his own. I can't get him over to Valentine. So, I must bring Valentine back to Duc - and worry later about the possibility of another escape.

And later on, this is how it works out. After Lin and Pete and family leave, I go back to Valentine - who's cushed down feeling sorry for himself (with Pedro still patrolling up and down, saying 'let me at him'). After a token struggle, he allows himself to be put on the lead, and calmly walks back to the rough land with me.

I leave Duc and Valentine together for the night, still unclear how Valentine escaped, and whether they will be there in the morning.

Lots to reflect on. I remember some words in an email to Val from Tom, one of her former colleagues:

You should totally call the BBC to come and make a series about your llama adventures. . . . It's pretty inspiring stuff . . . and a stark warning for any husband who doesn't take his wife's crazy plans seriously.

Tom, you are more wise than you know!

Better than work?

2008-05-16T13:59:00.004+02:00

I often think about how different my life is now, compared to when I had a 'normal' job. In France, where there seem to be rules covering everything (although experience suggests many of them are blatantly ignored in rural areas!), my status is unequivocally 'retired'. I debated this with the notaire when we were signing up to buy the additional land. He was relentlessly logical: "but Monsieur, it is not important that you were a fonctionnaire or that you intend to be an agriculteur, at the moment you are retraité . . . . "

I think that lots of people will have had images of me, retired, relaxing in the south of France. Of course, I also had some of those images . . . . So how does the reality compare?

At the moment, Val is in the UK for a few days, so the llama care is all mine. As are the other various pressing responsibilities that seem to be significantly harder to manage in France (largely because many of them have to be handled in French!). So, I am committed to twice daily trips to the two pieces of land. At a minimum, these trips take approaching an hour each - assuming I maintain our approach of walking whenever possible (part ethical, part economic). The garden needs a lot of work, as our vegetable area increases. There is still unpacking and sorting to be done. Currently, I also have to sort two new tyres for the Land Rover (punctures in well worn tyres). And my motorbike needs a new battery - ordered online, so I have to be here to greet the postman each morning.

Each day seems to go by remarkably quickly. And much of it seems to be spent in 'maintenance' activities, which don't let you sit back in the evening with a real concrete sense of achievement. I worry about the challenges to come (just how do you persuade a stud llama to stand still so you can trim his overgrown toenails?). I am working physically quite hard. And yet . . . .

And yet, I know that I would not even consider going back to my earlier life. The BBC (website and radio) reminds me how British politicians are obsessed with new 'initiatives' and their own self-importance. I occasionally scan the on-line edition of the Derby Evening Telegraph and wonder at the nonsense that seems to have overtaken local government. All this has a rather morbid fascination, but it also reminds me of the anger and stress I have left behind.

I really value about my new 'retired' life:

being in the country, where a busy road means one car in 10 minutes
constantly being immersed in 'nature' - with eagles above and lizards below
learning about llamas and puzzling out how to deal with them
making, fixing, growing things - and getting better at it

Above all, I am in control . . . . not of the outcomes, because disasters are much more likely here than they were in Derby. But I am in control of what I do. I can choose. And I suppose, paradoxically, that I like being able to make bad choices, and then learn from them.

A much better day!

2008-05-07T21:17:00.008+02:00

After a restless night (that's me rather than Duc and Valentine - as I couldn't get images of wandering llamas out of my mind, and dreamed of being woken up by an incomprehensible Frenchman shouting something about llamas and destruction), we got up early and went straight over to the Rough Land.

As we walked up the track to the land, my pulse rate was high and I was trying to work out what to do if no llamas were there . . . . . . Quite a relief to see two familiar faces looking over the gate with the usual anticipation of something nice to eat.

We had a wander around the land to see how well the llamas had settled in, and it was clear that they were still exploring, but with much more confidence than last night. I still expect to see them disappearing through the fence at any moment. Why do I have so little confidence in my workmanship? Could it be it's because I have no idea what I am doing? Bluffing was fine in my job, here it seems altogether more risky!

Duc and Valentine behave very differently on this land. I think they are much more natural, and happy to be released from the confined and bare land where they had little to do and they were oppressed by their stud neighbour and his harem of their former friends . . . . .

Their 'conversation' is very active at the moment, and they're also moving around very quickly at times. Hopefully, over the next few days, we'll get the chance to just sit and watch . . . .

Oh, I forgot, there's Ana to catch, halter and move before we can relax. I wonder what the next challenge will be?

More from the everyday tale of llama folk in due course . . . . .

And it came to pass...

2008-05-07T09:36:00.002+02:00

I really must stop imagining negative things. Clearly, if I believe that visualizing dreams can make them come true, I must accept the corollary. If I keep thinking about bad things happening, then they will. Truly, the power of the mind is awesome.

We actually managed to get Duc and Valentine on their leads with very little aggravation. No head-butts, no broken shins. It was a breeze. Somehow, although I had intended to take Valentine, predicting that he would be the easier one to handle, I somehow found myself slipping a lead on Duc as he presented his head to me and surprisingly didn't flinch when I put my arm round his neck. Simon just as easily got hold of Valentine, and we headed off out of the gate.

Duc, as he had on his previous excursion, immediately set about trying to eat every green thing within sight, so Simon went ahead with Valentine, to try to encourage a little more orderly walking-in-a-line. So far, so good. Duc agreed to follow while his mouth was full, with intermittent lurches to the side to get another mouthful of juicy clover to keep him going. Ahead of us, Simon and Valentine strolled happily along, and I muttered inane comments to Duc in the vain belief that the constant sound of my voice would be calming and reassuring.

Now whilst I might have been able to convince rooms' full of early years practitioners that I was calm, knowledgeable and in control, (whilst secretly panicking) during training sessions in the not-too-distant past, I suspect that Duc has a more highly developed ability to detect fear. He was edgy. I was edgy. He started breathing faster. My pulse rate increased. Breaking all known laws of time and space, the distance to our intended destination increased with every step we took nearer to it.

And then - just as I had imagined, expected, predicted - at the point where I needed him to follow me up a short steep gap in a ridge, he got round behind me, stumbled up and down the bank, and because I was unsteady and twisted round awkwardly, I stupidly didn't hold on to the lead tightly enough. "Oh f*ck!!" I heard shouted by a voice somewhere, that turned out to be my own. And he was off.....

My god, llamas can move fast when they want to. He ran a few yards and turned to look back at us. Was that panic or triumph I could read in his wide-open eyes? I took a few steps towards him, Simon shouting something helpful at me like, "Get hold of him". He started to run again. I stood transfixed in useless horror, as he picked up speed and headed back the way we had come and round a corner. I ran to try to keep him in sight - knowing I could do nothing about it except watch the drama unfold before me. Then in a moment of silent clarity, as I stood midway between Simon (trying to keep hold of an increasingly anxious Valentine), and the retreating rear end of Duc heading towards the road, I felt a sense of relief as I surrendered to whatever was about to happen. I could not control it. I could only respond to it, and deal with it as best I could. What could be more simple?

Duc reached the next bend and stopped. From where he stood, he could see the road and the route back to the security of his field. In the other direction he could see me, and further behind me, Simon and Valentine. He hesitated -confused, uncertain. The birds stopped singing. The insects stopped buzzing. The world held its breath.

And just then Valentine, dear lovely sweet Valentine, let out a very strange noise. A sort of anxious distress call, that Duc seemed to hear. He turned towards us, and in a flurry of dust, with his lead flying out horizontally in his wake, he galloped back in our direction. What an amazing and beautiful sight. He looked magnificent. Free and wild, and powerful.

Again, Simon shouted with a helpful suggestion. "Grab his lead!" He had to be joking. Duc was approaching at what must have been at least 30mph. No way was I going to even contemplate trying to grab his lead. I stood back out of his way as he hurtled past me towards Simon and Valentine. And then he veered to his right, straight down a line of vines into the very middle of a vineyard.

I contemplated the logistics of the situation. If I walked towards him he would move away. I couldn't head round him in a circle as the parallel lines of the vines dictated only up and down movement. He stood still. He nibbled at the new shoots on one of the vines. He moved on to the next one. And the next. He must have thought he'd found the perfect restaurant, with the tastiest dishes laid out in easy-to-reach lines at perfect munching height. I glimpsed a vision of the rest of a long day spent following Duc up and down the leafy lines of growing vines, always a few steps out of reach, as he systematically transformed the vineyard into a petrified forest of woody stumps.

Realising that there was nothing I could do, I stood still. Simon couldn't help to head him off - he was still trying to keep hold of a restless and distressed Valentine. So I stood still, and somewhat pathetically called to Duc to "come here". And, much to my astonishment, he actually did. He stopped munching, and just trotted up to me. As Simon later said, he just 'gave himself up'. I picked up his lead, turned around and uttered the immortal words "Walk on!"

Of course it wasn't completely plain sailing thereafter, but when we reached the dodgy steep ridge, and Duc baulked again I was ready for it. I had virtually tied the lead around my hand. I was NOT going to let go again. My panic brain had calmed down, and my thinking brain had come back into action. I recalled Mike's advice about getting reluctant llamas into a trailer. "If they won't go, you'll never be able to pull them. Just walk them around and let them check it all out. Walk them around as many times as it takes until they are sure it is OK, and when they are ready, they will go in. Just be prepared to take it slow"

So I let Duc circle around a few times. He stood, he looked at the track, he looked at me, he looked at Valentine safely up the ridge and heading away round the side of the wheat field. And, at last he followed me up. Praise the Lord!

Just the wheat field and the track to the gate and we would be there. At last the infinity of the experience slipped back into human time, and the final 200 metres or so took minutes rather than eons to traverse. We reached the gate to their verdant new home. We were in, the gate shut securely behind us. We walked on, up to the point where a bale of tasty hay awaited them, in a spot we had cleared under the shade of a large tree. "When shall we take their leads off? Simon asked me. "I already have", I replied.

We spent the next couple of hours anxiously following Duc and Valentine around the Rough Land, as they explored the (very far apart) boundaries, tasted the huge variety of plant-life on offer, and emitted constant high-pitched hums to each other, as if discussing what on earth was going on. Suddenly the three-wire fence seemed pathetically inadequate compared to the solid wire netting we had used on the other field. It seemed entirely likely that Duc, in his desire to go 'home' to the other llamas would find a way through or under or over the new fence. And that Valentine, clearly intent on not letting Duc out of his sight, would follow him.

Eventually, driven by our own thirst and low blood-sugar levels, we decided to go away and come back to check on them in an hour or so. But even after finding they were still there, (and still humming frantically) when we returned, we found it very hard to take our final leave of the day, when the sun was setting over the blackening hills, and all good llamas should have been settling down to sleep.

This may very well be the steepest learning curve that we have ever attempted to ascend. I wonder, will we ever reach the elusive Plateau of Complacency?

Fear and trepidation...

2008-05-06T13:28:00.003+02:00

The Rough Land is now fenced, prepared and ready to go. All that remains is for us to actually bite the bullet and move some of the llama family over to it. Sounds simple I know.

But first we have to catch them and get a lead on them. And then we have to step out into the open with no other means of control but the lead and our brute strength. It's one thing to walk llamas around familiar, comfortable surroundings, all within the boundary of the owners' property. It is another thing entirely to take them out into the big, wide world when they have no idea where they are going or what they might meet along the way.

Yes, I am not ashamed to admit that I am a little scared. I am scared of all the possible things that might go wrong, and I am scared of the pain I might experience if I get trampled on or kicked when we are trying to get the leads on. I am scared of the embarrassment and hassle that would ensue if one of them makes good his escape and legs it off into the nearest vineyard to wreak havoc and costly devastation. I am scared of the legal implications if one of them spooks on the road and causes a llama/vehicle collison scenario. I am scared that this has all been a very bad mistake, and that I really am not cut out for this sort of life at all.

Well, now I have shared my fear and trepidation. The sharing has not made me feel any better. But at least I won't be surprised when it all goes wrong. If we're still in one piece at the end of today, and if we have not been delayed by a lengthy stay in A&E or at the Gendarmarie, I'll write some more later to let y'all know how it went.

Pedro does his stuff

2008-05-02T19:06:00.005+02:00

Just when we were beginning to think Pedro had settled for the role of herd Couch Potato, and was never going to live up to his pre-purchase reputation as a 'proven stud male', a passing glance through the binoculars on a sunny evening at the end of a day's hard work revealed a sight for sore eyes.

Yes, here indeed were Pedro and Fatma totally engaged in the charming activity of llama-mating, in full view of the whole village. The versatile Field Shelter took on yet another guise as the happy couple decided to do the deed just yards from the road and the passing public, in the comfort of the herd's hanging-out spot.

Being the sick and twisted individuals we are, we grabbed a camera, jumped in the car, and headed up to capture the moment for posterity (and the blog). Unfortunately, the little camera, that can also film short videos, had a full memory card, and so we are unable to bring you coverage of this exciting event in full action and sound. Which is a real shame, because the noise that Pedro kept up during the 30 minute process was a Thing worth sharing.

On reflection though, it's probably no bad thing. Even these stills seem somehow too rude a portrayal of such an intimate moment. Jolly interesting though. And to be fair, neither Pedro nor Fatma seemed the least bit bothered by any of the attentions their activity attracted. Little Capucine was either very curious, or just very keen for Mum to finish all these strange goings-on and stand up for the next milk delivery. Ana came to have a look and get an inkling of what will come her way in the not-too-distant future, if she doesn't let up on the relentless flirting she engages in with Pedro on a regular basis.

Whilst Pedro was totally engrossed in doing his stuff, Fatma looked a little bored, and we couldn't help thinking she'd chosen this position close to the fence and facing the village, so she'd have something to watch to help pass the time. Thinking of England maybe?

On the other side of the fence - despite all the previous argey-bargey over Who was the Biggest, Strongest, Sexiest Stud in the World - Duc and Valentine went about their business with only the occasional glance in the direction of the action. Duc actually seemed more interested in reaching some very juicy little leaves high up in a tree - but then again, maybe he was just pretending not to care.

Zen and the Art of Fence-post Carrying.

2008-04-30T16:09:00.019+02:00

Oh gosh! It's more than a week since our last posting. How remiss of us. Our only excuse is busy business and constant hard work. Last week we bought another 110 fence posts (1.8m length, mostly 6 - 7.5 cm diameter, for those of you who care about such things) and a kilometre of wire (25kg) and began the relentless task of fencing our next area for the llamas, which has come to be known as The Rough Land.

As I believe I may have mentioned earlier, the land is steep, and access to it is not easy. We have to drive the land rover up country tracks, around the edge of some vineyards, and park at the edge of a wheat field, which we then have to walk round/through, before even reaching the boundary of our land. Then Simon has had to create a track through a long thin wedge of flattish, but overgrown land to reach the hilly area, where the boundaries of the land open out to create what could loosely be called a field. This steep 'field' is also heavily overgrown, but has a few clearings full of long grass, and other small vegetation.

The remoteness of the spot has its attractions (SO nice not to have to keep explaining what we are doing to passers-by), but it doesn't make getting 110 fence posts on to it very easy.

As usual, we arrived at a consistent division of labour. Simon did all the 'skilled' work of deciding where to put the posts, and then banging them in with big muscles and the post-banger. I did most of the 'gofer' work, moving the posts from the car to the land, and then up the hill to wherever they were needed. That meant five trips in the car with 20 plus posts each time, with each lot of 20 divided by the number of posts I could carry at one go, (which pretty much averaged out at three).

Now if you're keeping up with me, you'll have realised this meant around 36 return walking/carrying trips between the car and the beginning of the area to be fenced. Of course, we chose the hottest days of the week (of the year so far actually) to do the work, and the splinters on the posts meant substantial arm-covering clothing and gloves had to be worn.

Why, oh why are we doing this? Whose damned stupid idea was it to keep llamas in the first place! On a hot, sunny, Spring day in the South of France, any sane person would be sitting in the shade admiring the view from the terrace with a cold beer, a bowl of peanuts and a good book.

Still, such repetitive and hard tasks are always good for inspiring a bit of zen thinking. Of course, sweeping sand has gotta be a whole lot easier, but the notion is the same. Just be aware of this moment now. Don't let your mind fill with the horror of what is yet to come. Just take this step now. And another one. And another one. "The greatest things in the world must be accomplished through the smallest"; "A thousand-mile journey begins with a single step", (some nuggets of wisdom from the Tao Te Ching).

When one is concentrating only on This Step, it is very hard not to start counting them. Obviously, I'm not yet very good at concentrating on This Step. During the 36 return trips between the car and the 'post-depository' on the land, I counted 199 steps on the way in, and 177 on the way back. Clearly I take bigger steps when unladen. If my maths is accurate (ha!) that makes a total of 13,536 steps, more than 50% of which involved a heavy burden of splintered and unwieldy wood. And then the posts of evil had to be dragged up hill through the narrow, prickly, stumpy, steep pathways (that Simon had created specially for the purpose with his Big Strimmer), and laid out at appropriate intervals ready for the Banging-In.

Actually, during this last part of the process. my ability to concentrate on just This Step improved considerably. It took all my mental and physical powers just to stay upright and keep moving. But I swear at some points I was 'in the zone'. Just doing it, and doing it some more. It would be wonderful to be able to live all of life like that. Being aware of the detail of the present moment without passing judgement on it, or slipping into thinking about some undetermined point in the future when Things will be Better.

Suffice it to say, over the course of the hottest days of April, all the posts got put where they should be and banged into place. And despite a little bit of (slightly sneering, I think) health advice from our French neighbour (" You have a lot of colour! You don't want to work in the middle of the day. If you want to live long, you must start at 8.00am, stop at 11.30, eat and rest till 4.00pm, then work again till 7.00pm. And if it is too hot, you just don't work."), we were pleased with having accomplished a Great Thing.

Today, we started the next task of attaching the wire to the posts. Another big-heavy-pig-of-a-thing to get up to the top of a hill. Another learning experience. Allusions to the Myth of Sysiphus spring to mind. I don't like to hope too much, but at the moment we are feeling optimistic that the field will be secure and ready for the llamas by the end of this week. And yet, even as I write that, I sort of know that something will happen to confound such positive expectations.

What's in a name? (part 3)

2008-04-22T17:02:00.005+02:00

Well, the baby is now two weeks old, and she has to be named . . .

As always, we've agonised over this, and given it the systematic overkill. We thought that we should establish some sort of 'theme', so that future babies would have names that linked them together. So, Val has gone through all the lists of French girls' names she can find. The internet has been trawled for ideas. I guess we knew that when we hit on the right one we would know it (perhaps our approach to all of this new life is really just systematic stumbling?).

We've chosen a name which has French and Peruvian connections: Capucine. This is pronounced ca-poo-seen, and is the French word for Nasturtium. Our trusty French dictionary tells us that the nasturtium was introduced to France from Peru. Neat? Or just a little obsessive?

So the theme is to be flower names, although Val has pointed out that this would be a bit wimpy for the males, so we might have to have something more macho for any potential studs. But then what if they are castrated? Sexism gets much more complicated in the world of the gelded . . . . .

An uneasy peace

2008-04-22T15:10:00.011+02:00

Things seem to have settled down. We now have two separate herds.

Duc (front) and Valentine are facing away from Pedro, which suggests that they are being submissive. Pedro, meanwhile, paces up and down the fence line, with a "you looking at me?" expression. And young Ana is just mystified that everyone is no longer friendly . . .

When Duc or Valentine approach the dividing line - which they are still doing a lot, albeit tentatively - Pedro instantly adopts an aggressive stance. with ears back. Valentine has his forward, which in this case shows non-aggression. Duc has not yet managed to get so close, no doubt because he can't be so placatory. Valentine is really just a nice wimp! Fatma, the cause of all the problem, smirks in the background.

Things can't carry on like this, if only because Valentine and Duc now only have a very small area which is pretty grass-free. Now we have to get a load more fence posts and start work on some of the 'rough' land which we have agreed to buy.

Roll on the wheat harvest, when we can take over all the nice flat land. Shame it will have only stubble on it, rather than fresh grass to eat!

Nothing much happens

2008-04-20T20:15:00.002+02:00

A few days have passed since the Bad Day.

The hurdle of obtaining hay has been surmounted, (Remotely Interesting Fact: thirty two bales fit in our horse trailer, and weigh around a ton). The guttering has been installed on the field shelter, so the rain water collects in the llamas drinking bucket. Neat. The vegetable garden is taking shape – tomatoes, lettuces, courgettes and leeks in the ground; tomato, red pepper and basil seeds in pots. Despite all the Fuss and Bother of last Wednesday, no mating has yet taken place in llama land. As far as we know.

April continues to shower. Warm and sunny one minute. Heavy rain the next. The field is muddy. The track up to the top gate is muddier. The drive up it in the land rover is scary. More adrenalin bursts, as the road tyres get slick with mud and the only possible movement is a sideways slide towards the edge of a wooded precipice. Eventually back on the safety of the rutted tarmac, we laugh at the muddy trails we leave in the road, just like Real Farmers (and contemplate, with a guilty shudder, the possible consequences for unsuspecting bikers).

We take the dog for a walk, and have a good look at the next bit of rough land we intend to fence. It’s steep in many places and brim-full of prickly stuff. While I stand in a ‘clearing’ of Very Long Grass, Simon ventures off to explore the possible boundaries, leaving me alone in the silence. Strange, low grunting noises from close-by make me jump, and send Max the Lionheart whimpering to my side. The sun is hot, the sky a beautiful expanse of rolling silver and grey clouds bundling around in patches of blue. The joy of yet another moment in a magic place is only slightly marred by the fear of whatever tusked creature might come rushing out of the undergrowth at any second.

There is no easy access to the land – the most obvious way-in being across a field of wheat. Simon cheerfully comments that it will be easy to clear a line around the edges for erecting a fence. I consider the work involved and question his use of the term ‘easy’. I guess it’s all relative. The prospect of carrying fence posts from the nearest driveable point to the highest part of the land makes me feel tired. The thought of removing metres and metres of blackthorn makes me feel sore. The thought of paying someone else to do all the work makes its way into my head. But we can’t afford it and anyway it probably couldn’t be done quickly enough. Plus we’d have to have some more of those dreaded French phone conversations to arrange it.

We walk back home via the llama field and Duc and Valentine sniff at Max through the gate. Nobody runs away. As we head back down towards the village, the clouds empty. Max and Simon both make it home wet, and I straggle in behind utterly drenched. It seems hard to believe that in a couple of months all the land around here will be rock hard and bone dry, when the summer drought kicks in.

After the Storm

2008-04-19T16:37:00.002+02:00

The next morning came – just a little too soon for us weary things. However, our worries about our four-legged family had us out of bed and up to the field at the crack of dawn (well, maybe a few minutes later).

Duc and Valentine both came to greet us at the gate, although Valentine was still limping. After sharing a few happy breakfast moments with them, we decided to let Duc out of the catch-pen, and watched anxiously as he strutted straight towards the new fence dividing the field. Immediately Pedro responded, heading towards his side of the fence, head and tail up, ears back.

We waited. We watched. We held out breath.

Lots of posturing and posing by both protagonists. Duc moved one way, Pedro followed him. Duc turned back. So did Pedro. Up and down the fence line the two marched, hurling silent taunts across the wire, each trying to look taller and more threatening than his rival. Oh, if only we had a video camera!

Meanwhile Valentine, showing only a passing interest in the spectacle, remained happily in the catch-pen, munching hay. Since he did not seem in the least bit keen to join Duc in their allotted part of the field, and showed no anxiety at being on his own in the catch-pen, (an animal with a bit of sense!) we thought we’d leave him in there for a little longer, to ensure he didn’t move around too much, and hopefully give his foot a chance to heal.

Valentine spent the day either kushed or eating. Duc spent the day either posing or eating. Pedro spent all day ‘on guard’ at the fence line, apparently unable to relax at all. By the end of the day, my sympathies had transferred from the victims of the massacre, to poor uptight Pedro, driven by instinct, a slave to his hormones, bearing the lonely burden of being The Stud Male.

Deciding that overt hostilities had ceased (albeit temporarily), and that the new fence was doing its job, we turned our minds to the next immediate problem of getting some more hay from somewhere. We were down to the last of the bales that Mike and Sue had kindly given us to ‘keep the llamas going until we got sorted’ (ha!) and there was very little grass left in Duc and Valentine’s side of the field.

Simon groaned. Another delightful challenge of our new life lay ahead – telephone conversations in French, as he tried to find someone, somewhere who could sell us a load of hay immediately. I really ought to do something about improving my French language skills, so Simon doesn’t have to do all the communicating. But then if I did, it would be me having to make these phone calls….

Bad Day at Black Rock

2008-04-17T21:14:00.002+02:00

This is a strange life. Just when you think you’ve got it sussed, fate steps in to wipe that smug smile of your face.

Wednesday morning dawned sunny and clear. A good day for our first llama walk we thought. Having created a marvellous contraption for enclosing individual llamas in a small space, so as to make haltering easier (nay – even possible!), we thought we’d try out its effectiveness.

Things went quite well to start with. Between Simon and myself, a long piece of rope, and a big piece of wood (designed to be a kitchen unit worktop, but adapted by us cheapskates to become a sort of gate) we managed to persuade Duc into the small space, where he kindly stood calmly while Simon put on his halter and lead. Next up – Valentine. Well, he’d twigged as to what was going on, and was not quite so easy to catch, but still I found myself in a small space with him, and easily got his halter on. Piece of cake. Until I tried to attach the lead to it.

Maybe he didn’t like the colour we’d chosen for his lead (pastel shades for the girls, bold primaries for the boys – bright red for Valentine). Maybe he didn’t feel like a walk. Whatever the reason, he decided to test our catch-pen enclosure design at its most obvious weak point, putting his head underneath the ‘gate’ and spectacularly lifting it off its hinges. Yeah, well, I’d actually seen that one coming in my imagination as we were constructing it, but Simon, ever the optimist, had thought they’d be unlikely to try it.

So, Valentine, all shaken up (and a little bit pleased with himself, no doubt) was not in the least bit inclined to let me attach a lead to him, and we decided just to take out Duc for a short wander on his own. Which he seemed to enjoy, particularly since he managed to get his gob round some lush, sweet grass – a rare commodity in his over-grazed field.

On our return, Simon went ahead to open the gate, and Duc took the opportunity to try to pull my arm out of its shoulder socket. I think he was trying to get away, back to the lovely grass, but I had learned my llama-walking lessons well, and with a very from grip on the lead, there was no way I was gonna let go, and, triumphant at last, I led him back into the field. However, with hindsight, I wonder now if Duc had a premonition about what was about to happen next.

And what happened next was not a pretty sight.

The moment Duc got back into the field, Pedro, our ‘stud’ male, who up until this point had been a bit of a gentle (if aloof) giant, went on the attack. Head down, biting Duc’s legs; head up, spitting and neck-wrestling Duc to the ground; all the while making the most amazingly unattractive noises. This was a Pedro we had never seen before and suddenly his huge size and weight became overtly apparent. All I could do was stand transfixed in horror, calling to Duc to run away and come back to the catch pen. But would he submit? Would he hell! He was not behaving as a gelded male should. He was behaving like a sex-crazed football supporter after 10 pints of Best. Strutting, and posing and spitting and hanging around Fatma (the obvious cause of it all – on heat again, following the birth of her baby). He was getting a hammering, but he just couldn’t back down.

Eventually, god only knows how, we managed to steer the rumbling herd (yes they were all in there somehow, as if the girls were trying to break it up or something) towards the catch pen, and Duc, briefly distracted by the attraction of his other great love (food) ran in through the gate, with enough of a space between him and Pedro for us to slam it shut and break them up. Peace did not return though.

Duc tested out our fencing and gate construction, trying to jump over the gate, and when that failed, trying to push his way through the fencing. For once, we felt justified in having done such an OTT job on the fencing. It held, and Duc resorted to anxious pacing along the fence line, posing and snorting, and making a sort of “you’re lucky I can’t get over this fence” sound to Pedro.

After examining the blood on Duc’s legs, and deciding the wounds were probably superficial, we stood (shaking) at the fence between the rivals and contemplated What the Bloody Hell to Do Now? Fencing the other bit of rough land would take days. Keeping Duc in the small catch-pen on his own seemed an unlikely option – he was SO uptight, I thought he might explode or have a heart attack or something. The only possible solution was to split the field and make a new (very strong) fence down the middle.

Luckily we still had some fence posts and some wire netting left over from our earlier work, and Simon set to, banging in fence posts (with a speed and strength I had never thought possible – it’s amazing how useful adrenalin can be sometimes) while I stayed (very nervously) in the catch pen with Duc, trying to calm him down, and discourage him from trying to get out - his hot, snorting breath in my face suddenly seeming more scary than endearing.

“OK. Ok… It’s all under control. We have a plan. We have the necessary materials and know-how. It’ll all be fine.” Simon heads back to the house to man-handle the evil, heavy roll of wire into the land rover to bring up to the field. I stay between Duc and Pedro, to keep Pedro away from the catch-pen fence, literally out of spitting distance.

But then…Oh bloody crap! Pedro is attacking Valentine! Poor, sweet, submissive Valentine is getting the macho treatment, and even though he is kushing with his tail up over his back in an obvious, “You win, mate!” pose, Pedro is not leaving him alone. Much screaming – some of it Pedro’s, some of it Valentine’s, most of it mine. Visions of carnage. Visions of trampled llama babies, and lifeless, bloodied llama corpses. “Come on Valentine! Run for it! This way!”

Simon, fresh from his restful 15 minutes humping a massive roll of heavy wire uphill, plunges into the mayhem. Shouting manfully, with much arm-waving and probably unconsidered bravado, Simon approaches the fray as if it were a dog-fight – intent on establishing his position as the Alpha male. My visions of carnage expand to include lifeless, bloodied husband bodies, while my brain whirrs wildly searching for the French words to explain to the Emergency Services (Damn, what IS the French Emergency Number???) that my husband has been attacked by a rampant llama stud.

Amazingly, it works. Valentine, sensing impending mortality, stampedes down the hill, in my general direction, with Pedro in hot pursuit, and the rest of the gang close behind. Before he has the chance to veer off in an unhelpful direction, Simon grabs his halter and hurtles towards the catch pen. With my body between Duc and the drama in front of me, I get the gate open just wide enough for Simon to shove Valentine through the gap. Then Simon, expanding to the proportions of a Super Hero, turns to face-off Pedro, while Valentine, bloody and panting, collapses into a kushed position in front of the hay, and starts chomping. Comfort eating, I think.

What a day! What a life! Simon returns to join us in the sanctuary of the catch pen, and asks casually if I’m still happy that we’re following this dream. A moment’s consideration. “Would you rather be dealing with this, or asbestos in a primary school?” I retort. Discussion over, we wipe the sweat from our collective brow, and return to the Task In Hand.

Duc is a little happier now that he has a buddy with him in the pen. Valentine is a little happier that he is still alive. Pedro is a little happier that he has all the women and most of the field to himself. Fatma is chewing grass and pretending it is all nothing at all to do with her.

The rest of the day (which I think must have been nice and sunny as we both got sun burnt faces) passes in the concentrated effort of constructing a separating fence, whilst monitoring Pedro’s whereabouts, and trying to be polite to the endless stream of naïve passers-by who come to look at the lovely llamas and ask inane questions. In French.

When the fence is finished (no way through – it’s a good job we made two entrances, one at each end of the field) we review the situation. Duc and Valentine have been penned up all day, and Duc has been pacing the boundary endlessly, looking for a way out. We decide it is safe to let them into their newly enclosed third of the field. Out they come.

But Valentine is limping, and as he puts weight on his front, left foot, it oozes blood from a nasty hole on the outside. Wish we had some antiseptic. Wish we had any idea at all what to do. We decide in the end that Valentine should be kept in a small space to stop him walking about, and he seems happy to come back into the pen and lie down. But we don’t want to leave him alone, and we’re not convinced that Pedro and Duc won’t have a go at each other over or through our new fence, so Duc has to come back into the pen for the night as well.

As it gets dark, we return to the house suffering the after effects of adrenalin overdoses, tension and sheer hard work. Am I still glad we pursued this dream? Ask me in the morning.

Ahh!

2008-04-16T08:00:00.000+02:00

A picture is worth a thousand words . . . .

Young llamas - one of eight months, one of eight days

No it's not a bus shelter

2008-04-15T21:20:00.000+02:00

By popular request (!) here is a picture of the field shelter.

Yes, it might be slightly wonky, but the llamas don't seem to mind. And, in our defence, the land is very sloping and uneven. And we have never built anything like it before . . .

Let's hope the wind doesn't huff and puff and blow our house down.

Lama poo - servez-vous!

2008-04-15T20:09:00.000+02:00

Apparently, llama poo is excellent fertiliser . . . So, we are likely to grow the biggest vegetables in the village, as we have something of an excess available to us. True to form, Val is the poo collector, and as you can see, she loves the work!

Now all we need is to put a big bucket outside the house, with a sign inviting villagers to help themselves . . . . .

Interestingly (or at least I think it's interesting, so what does that say about me?) llamas are very social about their toilet habits. They establish one or two areas in the field where they will all go to poo and wee. Often the females go off the toilet together - showing many similarities with humans. Even the baby has adopted this social convention of using the communal latrine. What a sophisticated breed of animals they are!

Deforestation - llama style.

2008-04-15T13:21:00.010+02:00

Here's a short video of Anastasia and then Valentine destroying the remnants of a little pine tree, (and also of the baby getting a drink from Mum). We still haven't named the little one yet, She is a now a week old. I think it's time we stopped calling her 'Baby'.

Having seen how much the llamas enjoy eating trees, we realize we won't need to work so hard to clear the next bit of overgrown land we intend to fence for them. Maybe the Peruvian altiplano was actually a forest before the llamas got to it.

And here's another video, which shows the extent of Fatma's maternal concern. Is it the baby she wants to get to, or something else . . . .?

Helter Shelter....

2008-04-14T22:10:00.002+02:00

Over the last couple of days, we have completed the erection and roofing of the heath robinson architectural folly henceforth to be known as 'The Field Shelter'.

After a beautifully warm and sunny Sunday, we decided not to bother putting the sides on the field shelter, thinking that the llamas could benefit from the shade of the roof, and enjoy the cooling breeze from the side.

Mistake.

Sunday night, we had the Mother of All Storms, with torrential rain, sideways hail, and cold westerly winds. After 30 minutes of imagining a sodden baby llama dying from windchill on her 5th day, we drove up to the field in the dark, with a Very Big Torch, to check the llamas were all safe and sound, and somehow kushed down out of the worst of the weather.

Of course they were. We returned (colder and wetter than the llamas) to a fitful night of further worry, and determined to fix the back and sides on the field shelter the next day.

In the morning, the llamas were all looking rather bedraggled (and a bit muddy) but fine, and although the baby wasn't looking white and fluffy, she was clearly as healthy and bouncy as ever.

The day progressed with occasional sunny spells overwhelmed by frequent cumulonimbus downpours, as we struggled manfully to fit the feather-edge boards to the slightly wonky structure. Every time the clouds opened, the llamas ran for shelter against the tall vegetation at the side of the field, and observed us from their superior position, while we continued to work under the waterfall sheeting down from the roof (note to selves: next job is to install some guttering).

At 8.30pm we stood back proudly to admire the finished article, and despite chattering teeth and purple fingers (mine from the cold, Simon's from the misplaced hammer blows) stood around in the dimming light to watch our family tuck in to a fresh bale of hay within the cosy results of our day's labours. Now this is what I call 'job satisfaction'.

And each time we tried to pull ourselves away, the baby decided to do something funny and endearing or just outright crazy, making it so, so hard to turn our backs and leave. This is such a great life!

Breakfast time

2008-04-11T11:40:00.004+02:00

Click on the picture below to see an album from this morning

Latest photos

What's in a name? (part 2)

2008-04-10T19:14:00.006+02:00

Having just read Simon’s post about our choice of a name for our llama herd (and incidentally for our entire ‘farm’ or business), I feel a little more explanation is needed about how we came up with this name in the first place.

During our many (and very long and tedious) trips up and down through France over the last few weeks, I have frequently occupied my mind by trying to think of possible names for our farm-to-be. The list has been very long, ranging from the almost sublime to the utterly ridiculous.

I thought at one point I’d hit on a good one when I suggested naming it after an area of land on which most of our pasture will be based. Unfortunately, a Google search of the proposed name of la Ferme des Bouzigues, turned up a farm/zoo of that name in the Herault region, which could easily be confused with ours. (It also gave me some more ideas for future activities though – they have a petting zoo, with rabbits, ferrets, pygmy goats etc). We didn’t want to be presumptuous and call it la Ferme du Roquetaillade, thus laying claims to be the only farm in the village (although we will be the only one with animals!), or la Ferme du Chateau (after our road name) which might have upset the person who actually owns the village castle.

Many of my other suggestions were considered to be too twee (La Ferme des Feys du Bois was one I liked – meaning Fairywood farm. My daughter snorted, “you CAN’T call it THAT!”), or too hackneyed (La Ferme Verte – meaning Green Farm, yawn). None of the translations of suggestions like Haven Farm, Destiny Farm, Good Luck Farm really worked. At one point I wanted to call it Home Farm, like in The Archers, but Home doesn’t translate well into French, (Chez Nous – how trite can you get?!)

Getting desperate, I thought I needed inspiration. And feeling that this whole experience so far has been rather magical and fortuitous, it didn’t seem unreasonable to ask for a bit of help from the fairies.

Having installed the fairy-door (which was so thoughtfully given to me, as a leaving-work present… “It’s lovely…er, what is it exactly?” “It’s a fairy door, stupid! To invite the fairies into your house”) next to the outside of our front door, I picked up one of my embarrassing collection of fairy books (most of which are ridiculous rubbish, but a couple of which are actually quite reasonable, within the whole scheme of things) and started flicking through, hoping for inspiration.

My eyes lit upon the word ‘dawn’, and thinking of new beginnings, and magical times of day, I wondered what the French word for ‘dawn’ was. Out came the massive French-English dictionary. Having found that dawn in French is ‘aube’, I then looked up aube in the other end, to do a bit of cross-referencing (you have to be sure you’ve got the right meaning of things sometimes). After managing to ignore the distractions of those really interesting words that always seem to appear at the top of each dictionary page (such as gringalet (puny), godemiche (dildo), dodeliner (to nod off) – obviously I was working backwards to the ‘A’s), I got to the entry for aube, and just above it saw the completely unfamiliar word ‘aubaine’ defined as “unhoped for good luck, godsend”, with ‘profiter d’une aubaine’ meaning “to make the most of an opportunity”.

Perfect.

After sharing the idea with Simon, we did a bit of internet research and thus discovered the history of the word and its other meanings, (including the interesting fact that it is another name for the Chardonnay grape, which is also prevalent in these parts).

So, as far as the fairies and I are concerned, our venture will henceforth be known as La Ferme de l’Aubaine, and our llama herd will be Les Lamas de l’Aubaine.

Maktub (and if you don't know what that means - try this link)

What's in a name?

2008-04-10T15:27:00.007+02:00

Well, we've yet to decide on a name for the new baby, but that's not what this is about.

"What shall we call the herd?" is the question we keep coming back to. After chewing over all sorts of sensible and daft names, searching for that magic 'something' that would work for both of us, we've pretty well decided on 'Les Lamas de l'Aubaine'.

If you've not reacted immediately positively to this, then either it works better in the French, or we've not chosen well. Let me explain the meaning, and then you can react again!

First of all, we decided the name should be in French - because being in France is a very important part of our new life - but should be pronounceable in English (les lamas de l'aubaine = lay lama de l'o-ben).

This meant that llamas would become lamas, as for some reason the French don't accept either the pronunciation or the spelling of the Spanish word llama. In English, as is so often the case, we keep the spelling of a foreign word, but pronounce it as if it were English. Hence the rhyme which my daughter Nikita drew to my attention:

The one-l lama,
He's a priest.
The two-l llama,
He's a beast.
And I will bet
A silk pajama
There isn't any
Three-l lllama.*

-Ogden Nash

*The author's attention has been called to a type of conflagration known
as a three-alarmer. Pooh.

So, our llamas (English) become lamas (French), but with a nice Buddhist sub-text . . . .

Then 'aubaine'. In old French, around 1200, an aubaine was a foreigner. Foreigners came under the protection of the king, and part of this meant that if a foreigner died, then their possessions were inherited by the king - a system known as 'droit d'aubaine'. This was not abolished till 1819, well after the Revolution. By the end of the 18th Century, the term 'aubaine' had moved to a wider use than the droit d'aubaine, now meaning anything that was an unexpected gain, a godsend, a windfall. So, the word includes two relevant senses for us - 'foreign' and 'pleasant surprise'.

What do you think? Comments welcome . . . . Nothing is fixed until we register the new baby or formally create the business.

And then there were seven . . . . .

2008-04-08T14:56:00.011+02:00

Today has been a very significant day in the life of the Lamas de l’Aubaine.

We woke up this morning at the usual tardy hour of 7.30 am, and, as has become our accustomed routine, I picked up the binoculars, opened the bedroom curtains and proceeded to do the usual llama count. “There’s one….two, three, four….five, six…seven. Seven?!!!!”

Yes indeed. Despite all our careful monitoring over the last week, and endless watching for signs of Fatma’s impending delivery, we managed to miss the birth. Of course, on the plus side, this means we managed to miss all the stress and worry that would no doubt have been associated with observing the process. Instead, we just awoke to find it had all happened, and that mother and baby were doing well.

Of course, we got dressed and headed straight up to the field, Simon checking he had enough charged batteries for his camera, and me stuffing my pockets with Sainsbury’s carrier bags, so that I could remove the placenta, which I knew would be hanging around somewhere. Funny how I get all the nicest jobs! (Note from Simon: see the full fun of this task here!)

It is truly amazing to see something so small and defenceless stumbling around on such long and wobbly legs. The slope of the field was clearly proving something of a challenge for the somewhat unstable creature, but all the other llamas showed such an interest in the new arrival, that it was unlikely that they would allow any harm to come to it.

We failed miserably to get a good enough look at the baby’s rear end to be able to tell for sure whether it was a boy or a girl. However, after closer inspections of some of the photos, and a detailed phone conversation with our llamas’ previous owners, we are reasonably certain that it is a girl. When Simon asked me how I knew, I had to reply that of course it must be a female, because that’s how the plan goes. Since the day we decided to focus on llama breeding, rather than trekking, we’ve always hoped that both pregnant females would give birth to girls.

So, all is well with the Universe and we are happy bunnies (and llamas). And to cap it all, we are off to the notaire this afternoon to sign the promesse de vente for the eight hectares of land we are buying to accommodate our growing herd.

More pictures can be found by clicking here

Here come the llamas!

2008-04-03T19:36:00.003+02:00

We always knew this moment would come. Although, to be honest, even during today when we knew Mike had set off on the six hour drive south with the llamas loaded in the trailer, we hadn't really taken it on board.

I had planned to take lots of pictures of the arrival, and moving the animals into our field, but it all proved too hectic and demanding. The track to the top of the field proved a bit too difficult for Mike to back the trailer up, so he had to stop some 60 metres short. This then meant that we had to take the llamas in two batches up a strange track to an unknown destination. OK, probably, for the males who were used to going for walks . . . . but how would the pregnant females react?

Mike climbed into the trailer and we waited, slightly worried by the crashes and bangs from inside. It seems that as Mike fixed leads to some llamas, the others got tangled up in them. Eventually all went quiet and Mike asked us to open the rear trailer door. There he was, smiling and cheerful as usual, and we were off.

The first batch went quite smoothly - one of the males used to walking (Valentine), the young female (Anastasia), and the less pregnant female (Elif). With quite a lot of persuasion, we eventually managed to get them up the track and down to the field. They all set off to explore, while we went back to the trailer.

Of course, the remaining three were by now pretty agitated. One of them was a trained male (Duc), but the other two were the stud male (Pedro) and the very heavily pregnant female, Fatma. I think we might have hesitated - but realistically there was no point, because there was no alternative. It probably only took two or three minutes, but it felt a lot longer! No injuries, although both Mike and Fatma took fairly dramatic falls as they came down the path to the field.

The trauma seemed very rapidly forgotten - and the llamas behaved exactly as Mike had predicted, walking round the perimeter of the field to check it out, and then getting down to some eating and drinking.

Duc seems pretty relaxed

All three of the females check out some of the trees on the perimeter

All welcome some grass and a snack of hard food

Sad news

2008-04-02T20:18:00.001+02:00

So here we are at last. At home in Roquetaillade.

The first day of our journey through France was thankfully uneventful. However, the events of the second day reminded us what a roller-coaster of a ride this thing called Life is.

About three hours into our journey from Orleans we received a phone call from Sue (the llama-selling lady). “Hello, Val? I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news. Some really bad news. Emine is dead.”

Emine was one of the two pregnant females we had bought, and was the mother of the 8 month old Anastasia, who we had also bought, and who had not yet been fully weaned. A definite “Oh My God!” moment.

Sue went on to explain that they had returned from a shopping trip to find that Emine had somehow got her head stuck in the hay-feeder, in the barn, where all our llamas had been put ready for loading on to the trailer the next morning. They thought that maybe Albert, their huge Clydesdale stud horse, who was in the barn on the other side of the feeder, may have nudged it when Emine was eating, so she couldn’t get out, and that as she struggled to free herself she got weak, and then suffocated as the weight of her body pulled her down.

Of course poor Mike and Sue kept going over and over it. They couldn’t understand what had happened, and felt that it could have been avoided if they’d done something differently. When they found her, little Anastasia was still trying to suckle from her dead mother. Although it was of course upsetting for us, our sadness could in no way compare to theirs. After all, we had only seen Emine for a little while on our last visit to their farm, whilst they had lived with her for years, and seen all her babies born and weaned.

Despite their huge loss, Mike and Sue were keen to agree with us a ‘replacement’, suggesting that we could have one of the other pregnant females, or perhaps a couple more male llamas for trekking. They needed to know within the next couple of hours, as Mike would need to catch the llama(s) we wanted, to make sure they were in the barn ready for loading into the trailer at first light, for the trip to us.

It was at this point that the direction of our future in llama activities became clear. Whilst I would dearly have loved to have had Felix (a young male we had met whilst doing our training at Mike and Sue’s, and who I could imagine training into a really good and friendly trekker), and Diablo (the old grandfather figure who has ‘looked after’ Felix since he was weaned last year), there was suddenly no doubt in our minds that breeding rather than trekking is what we really want to do.

We had chosen Fatma and Emine from all the available pregnant females, as they were both pregnant by Mike and Sue’s stud male Yoda, which meant that, should either or both of their offspring be female, they could eventually be mated with Pedro - the stud male we had bought. However all the other females were pregnant by Pedro, so any female born to one of those could not be mated with Pedro (their father) without leading to possible genetic defects caused by inbreeding. Deciding to take one of these in place of Emine would therefore mean that we would need to look at getting ourselves another stud male in future, and splitting the herd (which of course means we would need to get more llamas to make each group a reasonable size, so they can be happy and not lonely).

Well, here we were with three days successful llama training under our belt, a good new trailer ready for transporting llamas here, there, and everywhere, and a newly discovered interest in the long term possibilities of breeding and selling well-bred, pedigree llamas. It didn’t take long to reach a decision, and within half an hour I rang Sue to say that, if it was ok with them, we would like to take Elif in place of Emine. We also checked whether Anastasia would still be able to come, or whether the trauma of her mother’s death, and the sudden enforced weaning, would cause an issue. Sue assured me that she would be fine, so we agreed that we’d call again when we arrived home just to confirm arrangements for tomorrow.

Death is a strange thing. Life is even stranger. There may not be a purpose to any of it, but I’m sure there is a meaning.

The final journey

2008-04-02T17:57:00.003+02:00

It’s a long time since either of us wrote anything on this blog. Time just flies when you’re really busy, and we have indeed been really busy. So, sorry, this is a really long (but exciting!) update . . . . .

The Derby house is now on the market, and looking better than it ever did when we were living there. The final touches of paint were applied about 30 minutes before the estate agent arrived to take the photos, and the remaining boxes of ‘stuff going to France’ had been crammed into the trailer about 10 minutes before. It all felt very much like one of those ridiculous garden/house make-over programmes, where the pressure is really on in the last half hour before the final deadline, and the last-minute rush is filmed at double speed.

The next day, after a few final arrangements and one last Sainsbury’s shopping trip (to stock up on those hard-to-come-by essentials such as Marmite, baked beans and Echinacea tea) we made our tearful departure from Derby within an hour of our planned set-off time (which was quite unusual for us!) After a momentary panic 200 yards along the road when we thought the land rover had broken down – it had just randomly slipped into neutral – we were on our way.

The sense of relief that we were making our final heavily-laden, 17 hour journey along the delightful motorways of England and France was huge, and only marred by my sense of loss (and no small measure of guilt) at leaving my children to fend for themselves in the big bad world. We had made this relentless, two-day journey four times in the last month, and each time I had my metaphorical fingers crossed so that nothing would go wrong. (I am a terrible passenger, visualizing horrendous car crash scenarios at every bend in the road).

So, in some ways, it was not much of a surprise to me when a couple in a motor caravan overtaking us on the M25 (my favourite of all roads – not) gestured frantically for us to pull over. Thinking maybe we were losing some of our possessions out of the back of the horse-trailer, Simon got out to inspect the load, and returned to the car with the news that we were “really in the shit”. It seems that somewhere along the journey, we had lost a wheel off the trailer, and were actually damned lucky that the whole thing hadn’t collapsed sideways causing a massive accident. God only knows where the sheared-off wheel went, (I listened to the news for days afterwards expecting to hear of un unfortunate fatal accident caused by a loose wheel in the carriageway of the M25).

Now, canny Simon, being the good boy-scout that he is, had ‘been prepared’ and arranged breakdown recovery insurance before the trip. So we crawled along the hard shoulder (“Three wheels on my wagon, and I’m still rolling along”) to the next exit, and parked up outside a salubrious row of shops on a main road in Enfield. Unfortunately, the rescue service were a bit at a loss when it came to dealing with the broken down trailer, and with it being Saturday evening when all possible repair centres were closed, it was agreed that they would do a two-part recovery for us. Eventually a lorry arrived to take the trailer down to our overnight destination at Simon’s parents’ house in Dover, with the agreement that on Monday the rescue service would then take it to whoever we could find nearby who could fix the thing.

So Sunday morning arrived. The day of our intended departure from this Fair Island. After cancelling the 10.00am ferry (which was made difficult by the fact that the ferry company apparently forgotten that the clocks had gone forward overnight, and so weren’t contactable by phone at 9.00am as advertised), and cancelling the hotel of our planned overnight stop at Orleans, we decided to take the dog for a long walk in the woods, and consider our situation.

The llamas were due to be arriving at our house in France on Wednesday. It would take us two days to get to our house from the point of getting the ferry. The arrival of the llamas could not be delayed by very long, owing to the impending birth of Fatma’s cria (due anytime after the early part of April). We had no idea if the trailer was repairable, and if so, how long it would take – or how much it would cost. We couldn’t do anything about it until Monday because all the remotely possible repair places wouldn’t be open until then. The whole remainder of Sunday yawned before us like a chasm of inaction.

Still…we were safe, Simon’s parents were clearly overjoyed at the prospect of our extended stay with them, and the woods were beautiful. Full of wood anemones, early bluebells (East Kent is much sunnier than I’d realised) and tall, gnarled trees, undoubtedly housing lucky fairies who could help us with our dilemma. With the immortal words of my erstwhile boss ringing in my ears, I found myself irrevocably drawn to the notion of a SWOT analysis of the situation. Well, actually only the S and O parts of it. The Weaknesses were bloody obvious, the Threats something only paranoid people would think about. But, Opportunity! Now there is one of my favourite words.

Of course, being believers in the benevolence of the Universe, and having many times experienced the unexpected turning of apparent clouds into pots of gold (to mix a few weather-related metaphors), we started to look for the possible good reasons why This Might Have Happened. And the obvious answer - apart from the fact that it was a good thing to spend more time with Simon’s parents – was that it was a final opportunity to buy a really good trailer in England (they are ridiculously more expensive in France) so that we would be properly equipped for running our llama-breeding business in the future. We had already discovered that our current, old trailer couldn’t be registered in France, and therefore could not be legally used for transporting llamas to prospective purchasers, but had thought we’d worry about that later, depending on how things with the llamas progressed.

So out of the ashes of Plan A, arose Plan B. We would unload all our worldly possessions into The Parents’ garage, arrange the purchase of a new (second-hand) trailer immediately, collect it on Monday when the banks would be open to let us get our hands on some cash, load it up with all our stuff, and leave on a rebooked ferry crossing on Tuesday morning. Then, delaying the arrival of the llamas by only one day, we could get to our house Wednesday evening, unload the trailer and unpack our stuff, and finish off the final touches to the fencing and field preparation on Thursday morning before the llamas arrived after lunchtime.

A good plan. We just needed to find a suitable trailer to buy, and find a way of dealing with the old one.

Sunday afternoon passed in a haze of frantic activity. We unloaded the trailer and somehow squeezed its contents into the available garage space – being sure to leave enough room for the dog, who was also having to spend the daytime in the garage because his bounceability posed a serious hazard to the health and safety of Simon’s aged parents. After endless internet searching, and many unsuccessful phone calls re trailers for sale within a 100 mile range (“Sorry, I think it’s sold, but can I take your number in case it doesn’t work out…”), we decided our only option for Plan B to work within the prescribed timescale, was to bid on Ebay for an Ifor Williams trailer in Milton Keynes. We watched it all afternoon - the auction was due to end at 7.15pm - feeling optimistic as by 6.00pm there had still been no bids. It had a high starting price, but was only 18 months old and in as-new condition.

As the bidding deadline approached, we all sat glued to the computer, and after deciding on the highest price we would be willing to pay (oh! the self-discipline! the maturity!), Simon placed our one-and-only automatic bid 3 minutes from the end. Two other bidders came in at that point, and one tried within the available time to beat our bid, but in the final second, our highest bid just held and we GOT IT! When the palm-sweating and heart-pumping had subsided, we reviewed with some trepidation the tasks ahead of us the following morning.

Monday morning. After a wistful contemplation of the possibility of getting poor old trailer ‘number One’ fixed and then stored for collection from England at a later date, Simon hot-footed it to the bank to pick up the necessary dosh, and then headed back up the M2, M25 and M1 to pick up the shiny trailer ‘number Two’, leaving me to ring round possible trailer repairers or find a way to scrap the beast. Another short woodland walk with the dog giving me the opportunity to heed the fairies’ advice, I returned convinced that the trailer being possibly fixed and stored in England would be a veritable albatross around the neck of our new life in France. Besides, it had only cost 300 quid on Ebay, and had done one return trip to France already. Nodding a farewell to pointless sentimentality, I got back to the house and straight on to the phone to a scrap-yard in Aylesham. “Yes”, they could take the trailer; “No”, they wouldn’t give me anything for it, and “No”, they couldn’t collect it, so we’d have to get it there ourselves.

Time for another cunning plan. The vehicle-rescue service still owed us the second part of the recovery, to a repairer of our choice. Why not say we wanted it recovered to the address of the scrap yard? It was a bit of a tense moment as I tried to convince the recovery call-centre operator that Carlos Scrap was indeed a Repair Centre (them not having an identifiable address in the post-code directory didn’t help matters), prompting another call to Carlos himself, to enlist his participation in the deception (“if anyone asks, can you say you have agreed to fix it with parts you have in your yard?”).

It was an even tenser moment when the lorry arrived to pick it up, but for very different reasons. The driver was not exactly skilled in the art of loading three-wheeled trailers onto lorries. There were some very hairy moments as the trailer hung precariously off one corner of the ramp while he tried manually to bounce it into place, and I had to point out that maybe he should be fixing it to the tow-ball on the moveable thingy at the front to secure it. His exact words were “ Hmmm, maybe it would’ve been better if I’d thought about that first. You can tell I don’t do this for a living, can’t you?” Still, eventually it was relatively secure, and he drove off happily to find the elusive Carlos repair centre, with all the paperwork duly completed and signed.

At 5.00pm Simon returned from his Milton Keynes jaunt towing the neatest, loveliest little trailer in the world. With proper, water-tight doors, and locks and keys and everything. What a good buy! How lucky were we?!

The Trailer is dead. Long live the Trailer.

A quick dinner, then back out to load up before it got too dark and damp (how do those boxes manage to get heavier every time you move them?). Phone calls to rebook the ferry and rearrange llama delivery for Thursday, and that was it. Plan B sorted.

Tuesday morning. Reload frozen gooseberries from Parents’ freezer into coolbox. Reload luggage and dog into car. More tearful farewells, and off we go again.

After the hectic events of the last few days, the fact that we were actually leaving England for good hadn’t really hit us. We watched the white cliffs of Dover fade away into the hazy sunlight. “Somehow, it seems as if this should feel more significant,” said Simon. “Yeah…” I replied. “D’ya fancy a coffee?” “Yeah…and a croissant, maybe.”

And so we left England behind us forever.

We get trained

2008-03-22T18:12:00.004+01:00

We've just spent three brilliant days with Mike and Suzanne Longhurst, the couple from whom we are buying the llamas. As part of the deal, they said we could come to stay on their farm in the Allier region of central France for some intensive training in llama care/training/breeding.

Mike and Sue spent some years raising llamas in Wales before moving to France about three years ago. Unfortunately, Sue had an accident recently which means that they have to give up their farm and the Clydesdale horses and llamas they have been breeding. This was the sad reason why we were able to buy some their best llamas as our starter herd. As soon as the house and farm sale is completed in late April, they will be off to Spain (or Bulgaria, or somewhere else - it seems to have changed a lot in the short time we have known them! Another thing that has changed is Mike and Sue are likely to be keeping on some llamas - I hope so, because it's clear that they mean an awful lot to them.)

Mike put us through a rigorous curriculum of training - but we seemed to progress rather faster than he had expected. He soon came to the conclusion that we are 'naturals' for llama farming - and who are we to disagree with such compliments :-)

In no time at all, we were putting halters on the llamas (well on Duc and Valentine, the tamest, best trained ones!)

and taking them off on walks around the farm.

I'm getting more and more enthusiastic about this new life. Our llamas are such characters - and I have no doubt that we shall find them endlessly fascinating and rewarding. They also show quite a lot of interest in us!

By the end of our stay, we had loads more confidence, and were even having a go at walking Pedro (the stud male).

Many thanks to Mike and Sue, who we hope will be our friends for many years to come.

Can I borrow your llamas?

2008-03-07T20:48:00.002+01:00

Returning from working in the field today, I was approached by a man I didn't recognise. He asked if I spoke French, and then we had an intriguing conversation.

He explained that he owned a vineyard nearby, and he wondered if he could borrow our llamas to graze among his vines. I said that surely this would a mistake, as the llamas would eat the vines. Oh no, he said, I've already tested it, and it's fine.

I was now struggling with the language, and wondered if I had misunderstood something crucial. It was only when he went on to explain that what he had actually tested was grazing sheep among vines that I understood what was going on. I explained that, although llamas might look a bit like big sheep, their eating habits were more like goats.

He quickly withdrew the request . . . Shame in some ways - it could have been quite exciting watching the llamas munching their way down a line of vines!

It certainly shows that the word has got around about our plans. We're also getting more and more friendly waves and smiles as people drive past the field. Not sure if they are admiring what we have done, or just laughing at the lunatic English and their odd behaviour. When the llamas arrive we suspect people will be stopping and asking whether they make good eating . . . .

Getting the borrowed land ready . . . .

2008-02-29T18:47:00.022+01:00

When we first looked at the land we are borrowing, it seemed as though it had never been used. Most of it was covered with broom bushes up to 3 metres high, and many parts were impenetrable. We'd been assured that it had provided grazing for two horses in the (distant!) past, so we decided optimistically that it should be straightforward to clear it . . . .

We bought some really good power tools, and got to know the staff at our local 'Rural Expert' store rather well. In the end, the task proved relatively simple - it just required day after day of really hard work! We'd read that broom might be poisonous for llamas, although nobody seemed to be sure about this, and some advised us that it was harmless. To be safe, we decided that we had to remove it all.

Luckily, broom burns really well, and we had several days of huge bonfires as we dragged masses of the cut plants down the hill to a cleared section.

Bit by bit, the open spaces got bigger. We had to remind ourselves from time to time how much progress we had made, so that we felt there was some chance we could end up with a usable field.

Eventually, we had more or less cleared enough of the land to make a field big enough for our six llamas.

Of course, this was only the first part of the task. Now we needed a fence!

We'd never done any fencing, so weren't sure what this involved. We did more of the usual internet research, and learned that we needed higher fencing than is commonly used with sheep. Electric fencing would be much easier to erect, but it seems that it's not really suitable for llamas because of their thick fibre. So we needed to buy what seemed like huge amounts of metal stock fencing and wooden posts. Then we needed a post 'rammer' and various fencing tools (we found a brilliant tensioning tool invented by a British engineer) - and once again Ebay proved a brilliant source!

Neither of us would have claimed to be very fit, but we have found that fence erecting is amazingly good aerobic exercise. The post rammer weighs about 8 kilos - and it takes at least 70 blows to hammer in one post. If you hit a root, or worse a stone, it can be even harder! The whole field will take about 90 posts - do the maths!

We finished the fence along the road side of the field in four days - and we're really pleased with the results.

The sections up the hill at the back of the field are much harder, because of the tree roots and stones.

We also need to include gates and build a shelter for the llamas . . .

And soon we shall need to do the same on loads more fields on the land we are buying. Volunteer labour will always be welcome. Working holiday in France anyone?

How we came to This . . . .

2008-02-29T18:25:00.000+01:00

Well. Here at last is the promised blog, designed with the intent of keeping interested parties up to date with our new-life agricultural endeavours, and of reminding people that Dreams can and do Come True.

How this particular dream came about in the first place is actually not at all clear. The basic notion that ‘there must be more to life than this’ (that probably occurs to most of us at some time in our busy, stress-ridden working lives), somehow turned into a fairly hazy plan of action. We decided we wanted to live a simpler life, closer to, and more in tune with nature. We wanted to spend our time engaged in activity that felt good, and resulted in outcomes that were clear, and under our own control. In short, we wanted to find more joy in life.

The whole llama idea as a specific way of realising that vague dream just somehow seemed to grow on its own.

I remember a particularly dull day in the office when, internet-browsing properties for sale in Wales, I came across a country house with a few acres of land for sale. The property description mentioned that it had previously been used as a llama farm, and, recalling an article I had read in a Sunday supplement many years previously about the therapeutic benefits of walking with llamas, I jokingly exclaimed that I might pack in work, sell my house and move to Wales to become a llama farmer. Much discussion followed about llamas, along with more internet searching to find a picture of a llama to show a work colleague who wasn’t sure what they looked like. The picture ended up stuck on the wall next to my desk, and from then on became the representation of that dream-like Other Life, to which I might one day escape.

Now there’s a funny thing that happens when you keep looking at pictures for a long time. Gradually over the weeks and months of looking at that picture whenever I felt the need to imagine being somewhere else, it started to feel as though it was only a matter of time before the llama farm became a reality. The office joking resulted in more internet browsing, and the more I read about llamas, the more it seemed like having some would be a Good Thing to Do.

By the time Simon had formulated a financial plan (i.e. worked out how we could live on nothing till he got his pension in 2011), and confidently handed in his notice in October 2006, he had also been bitten by the llama bug, and was beginning to incorporate them into his mental picture of his Dream Smallholding, along with the chickens and pigs. The plan was something along the lines of: a) sell our French holiday home and use proceeds to buy a bigger house with land in a cheaper area, and b) renovate and sell our English house, to provide money to live on.

Now the other thing that I’ve realised about Making Dreams Come True is that it is important to focus on What Really Matters, and not get carried away by the craving for perfection which gets us stuck in the endless cycle of always wanting something a little more, a little better. Our plans for a better, simpler life got a little side-tracked as we mentally and physically travelled the length and breadth of England and France looking for the perfect house in the perfect location with the perfect land at the perfect price. Until, sitting on the terrasse of our holiday home in Roquetaillade one lovely evening in October, contemplating its possible sale to someone who had visited that afternoon, we suddenly realised that we didn’t need somewhere bigger and better to make us happy. The only thing missing was that we needed some land for some animals. So we decided to take our French house off the market, be content with what we had, and let the Universe take care of our Dreams.

Now some cynical people, who have never appreciated the strange and bountiful way in which the Universe conspires to make wishes come true, might have said that we would be stupid to sit and wait for someone to knock on the door and offer us some land. Which, however, is pretty much what happened next.

Having decided to take the house off the market, we were packing the car for the return trip to England the following morning, when our neighbour, Nadine, rushed over to ask if it was true that we were selling the house and moving out of the village (well, at least I think that’s what she said, but it was in very fast French with a strong southern accent so I only got the gist of it before Simon stepped in to translate). When Simon explained that we had intended to move because we needed some land for some animals, she said that her ex-husband had some fields we could rent.

Now the story from that point is full of ups and downs, which is only what you’d expect from life. Another thing I’ve noticed though, is that you can never be absolutely sure about what constitutes an up or a down. In retrospect, the apparent downs often turn out to have been a Good Thing, even though we didn’t think so at the time. Like when we returned to the village some weeks later, having visited a llama farm in the Auvergne and ordered 6 llamas on the strength of the belief that we had some fields to rent, only to be told by our neighbour that the fields were no longer available because someone else had sown wheat in them.

Feeling somewhat distraught at the mental image of our llama dream crashing and burning, we clearly managed to communicate our disappointment to Nadine, who said that she had some land we could use (for free) if we could clear it. She had used it for horses 15 years ago, but it was now completely overgrown. At first sight it seemed an impossible task, but we said we’d have a look, and the next day she sent her son Gilles (who speaks English), to show it to us.

It was during this guided tour around the impenetrable boundaries of her field that the Cloud showed us its silver lining. Gilles explained to us that, even though his father could not now rent us any land, he would be willing to sell it, although it would not be available for use until the wheat sown on it had been harvested in June. We of course jumped at the chance of actually buying the land, rather than just renting it. The situation just left us with the slight problem of where we would put the llamas in the meantime, until the land became available.

Which is how we came to be clearing his mother’s overgrown field.