Here we are, still in Harrogate. We’ve given up trying to sell the house. Perhaps we could rent it out instead?
The Letting Agent called round to give advice. ‘Hmm. You’ll find neutral colours are best on the walls’. So this month is devoted to making the house not neutral, but bland.
Wedgwood blue, sunshine yellow, saffron orange, Moroccan red – all need to go, in favour of – magnolia. Well, we could have chosen barley white, walnut whip, almond blossom, Jersey cream…………, but they’re all much of a muchness, and magnolia was on offer when we went shopping for paint.
And what you need to know is that we can’t stand painting, neither of us. Any dispacement activity will do. Washing up? Great! Cleaning the bathroom? Wonderful! When we do finally get started, we try so hard only to look at our watches once an hour….and then discover 10 minutes has passed. We thoughtfully offer to make each other cups of tea at every opportunity, and consider it important to empty our bladders before there could be any possible discomfort. We climb down ladders to go and inspect each other’s work, brush stroke by brush stroke, and really, it’s a miracle that we have in fact managed to paint 2 whole rooms since Wednesday. That’s partly thanks to our friends in LETS. You don’t know about LETS? You will. To be continued , perhaps not in my next, but some time in the near future
Depending on your point of view, it was either Napoleon or Adam Smith who first called England ‘a Nation of Shopkeepers’
But it was only after I came to settle here in France that I started to think of shopkeeping and market trading as skilled occupations, and realised just what is involved in keeping the customer happy.
It’s probably because it’s just so much easier, where we live in England, to nip down to the supermarket. There weren’t too many independent shops on our daily round: so much for a nation of shopkeepers. Mind you, we loved it when Emily was a Saturday girl at the French patissier who was then in Harrogate, Dumouchel. She would often be sent home with a couple of unsold petits gateaux for us to enjoy, or some slowly-fermented sourdough bread. It was small shop, and quite expensive, so she learnt quickly to value customers and to treat them well, so they’d come back. She learnt too that while most of the people she served were friendly and appreciative, customers could be curmudgeonly too.
The baker’s – busy at lunchtime
So who are the good commerçants here? Well, down at the bakers, they’ll often put aside our much-loved pain noir without being asked if I’m not in bright and early, knowing we’d be disappointed if they sold out.
Buying cheese at the market
Today at the market, madame who runs the cheese and charcuterie stall had printed off some recipes specially for me, because she knew I might enjoy trying them out.
Down at Bobines et Fantaisies, she goes to Toulouse most weeks to seek out unusual scarves and accessories, so there’s always something new and worth trying at her tiny shop. ‘Let her try it on. If she doesn’t like it, bring it back!’, she’ll insist, as you dither between a bracelet, a couple of scarves and a chic but cosy winter hat. These shopkeepers remember us, our tastes, our whims and foibles. They welcome us, and chat cheerfully with us, even if we leave the shop empty-handed.
Madame at Bobines et Fantasies helps me choose a few presents
There’s just one shop here that doesn’t cut the mustard. ‘Il n’est pas commerçant’ we all grumble. Those of us outside the select band are routinely ignored, and as we feel our custom isn’t valued, some of us now go elsewhere.
But not to the supermarket. Oh no. Yesterday we DID pop into one, but as the muzak system was belting out a schmaltzy version of ‘Auld lang syne’ in what passed for English, we very soon shot out again. Small Shops Rule OK.
If it hasn’t reached you yet, beware. It will. This invasive plant was introduced – from the Himalayas, obviously – as an attractive addition to the English garden in 1839, and now seems to be marching inexorably round the country, destroying all plants in its path – yes, ANY plant. Even roughy-toughies like rosebay willow herb and brambles are powerless to stand against it.
The other day, I went with a friend on a favourite walk along the River Nidd. It’s a gorgeous path, through typical English woodland, with the river rippling and tumbling alongside. Not any more, not where we were. Himalayan balsam has invaded huge stretches of the walk – it prefers to be near water – and we found ourselves marching between shoulder-high sentinels of the wretched thing, unable any longer either to see the trees and undergrowth, nor enjoy either the riverside views or those of the meadows opposite.
And in town today, walking down a little ginnel where, when I was at work, I used to collect blackberries in my lunch hour to make into jellies and jams(how sad….but it made me happy) there was not a bramble bush in sight, just That Balsam.
If it’s planning an invasion near you, martial your forces. This plant will fight, smother and strangle every bit of vegetation in its path, and conquer yard after yard of ground with every passing year. You must join battle against it the very first time you see some of its – quite attractive – pink flowers . Or it will win the war and continue its despotic rule.
I’m back home in Harrogate for a few days. It’s been quite a surprise. I left Carcassonne airport in bright hot sunshine, and arrived at Leeds/Bradford to….bright hot sunshine. And so it continued.
I spent a happy afternoon dealing with Weed Management and Invasive Plant issues. It was very satisying. Instead of grubbing about clearing a weed here, a weed there, I was able to sweep up vast armfuls of unwanted plants off into the compost bin, and create an instant impression that only the frogs, undisturbed for weeks now, failed to appreciate. If only I’d taken some ‘before’ and ‘after’ shots.
Most surprising of all has been the day light. I’d quite forgotten. Last night, I was still reading without having a light on at 10.00 p.m. 9.30 would have been more like it in Laroque. But it was this morning when I really realised I’d travelled north. The light was pouring through the bedroom window so brightly I sprang up to begin the day. And then realised it wasn’t even 4.30. Mornings here begin a full hour and a half earlier than in the south of France – though there is the hour change to take into account. I do sort of regret that I went back to bed, instead of taking an early morning stroll down to the Nidd Gorge. Maybe tomorrow.
We were back in England for a while, getting our house ready to market. Those TV makeover shows have got a lot to answer for. It’s no longer enough to do a bit of casual dusting. We de-cluttered surfaces, touched up paint, knocked the garden into shape, and even gave one room a total makeover (‘People are so thick’, advised one chap who’d come round to give us an estimate for removal. ’Just because you’ve got that room organised as a study, they won’t be able to see it as the house second bedroom. If you can, get rid of all those books, and set it up as a bedroom’). So we did. We boxed up several hundred books and put them in the garage, then covered the dark green walls in restrained buttermilk paint, and popped in a spare double bed we just happen to have, a chest of drawers, a bedside light or two. Add an artificial orchid from Habitat, et….voilà…one genuine bedroom makeover. And then we had to live in, and keep up with, all the unaccustomed tidiness. We hated it.
But we did love being in England. At least I did. Here are my 13 reasons for happiness. Definitely NOT in rank order
Harrogate in crocus and daffodil season must be one of the loveliest urban sights in Europe. The Stray, that splendid open parkland which girdles the southern part of the town, was all but submerged in a sea of purple white and orange crocus, gradually opening to reveal saffron coloured stamens as the sun teased the flower petals apart towards midday. The crocus fade away to be replaced by an equally extensive display of daffodils. They were only just reaching their best as we left town, but we did at least see them.
Radio 4. I had it on constantly. From Our Own Correspondent, Paul Merton on Just a Minute, Daniel Corbett’s animated and informative weather forecasts, Gardeners’ Question Time….. all to help the day go by as we scrubbed and polished
Spending time with those fantastic twin boys, the grandchildren, as they discovered the new adventure playground in Harrogate’s Valley Gardens.
Nidderdale LETS. What a great bunch of friends. We’d organised a Task Force of willing members to tackle the overgrown jungle that was our garden. Naturally it rained on the day. So everyone turned to in the house. They scrubbed paintwork, wrapped ornaments, painted the above-mentioned bedroom, hoovered…And we all had fun, and lunch together. How do people manage without LETS, or SEL as it’s called in France?
Friends. We had little enough time to socialise, but those hours spent sharing time at our house, in Ripon, in Huby, and in various spots in and around Harrogate were all very special
Charity shops. Whenever I’m in England, I spend time combing through the stock of books in all our local charity shops. With everything from the latest Man Booker winner to little-heard-of classics all going for anything from 30p. to a pound, why wouldn’t I want to stock up? And this time, we off-loaded quite a few things too
Freecycle. The amount of stuff that Harrogate Freecycle keeps out of landfill must be quite phenomenal these days. And its members seem to be amongst the nicest people in town. So we were glad to pass on some stuff to various happy recipients.
Pontefract cakes. Nothing else quite hits the spot. Oh, except perhaps luxury-end crunchy hand-cooked crisps from Marks and Spencer or Waitrose. Chilli flavour.
Power walking in the Valley Gardens, 8.30 a.m. Sunday morning, with Angela and Chris. Best start to the week. Not sure we really ought to call it power walking any longer though. Power chatting maybe.
Hot cross buns. When I was younger, Good Friday was the day of the year when we ate hot cross buns. Maybe for a day or two after as well, but no more than that. Freshly toasted and dripping with butter, the sugary cinnammon smells wafting through the kitchen, they were one of the food highlights of the year. Now they’re available all the time, they don’t seem half so special. But during this last English fortnight, Good Friday or no Good Friday, Malcolm and I made sure we got quite a few hot cross buns under our belts.
Indian take-away. After hard days spent painting and cleaning, few things are more reviving than a good Indian take-away. Hot, pungent, spicey, sour, the vivid flavours cheered us up and brightened our mood. The French don’t know what they’re missing!
Guardian and Observer. I know I could read Polly Toynbee, Nigel Slater et al on line. But it’s really not the same, is it?
Talking in English. The sheer relief of being able to chat, chunter, chew the fat, confide, discuss, digress, argue, amplify, explain, entertain, without pausing to consider whether I’ve chosen the right gender, the right word, the right ending. Yes, perhaps this really is so precious it really needs to go right up to the top of the list at number 1.
Another day, another freeze. The other evening, we were with some friends. We watched the 10 o’clock news and saw satellite images of a totally white UK. Then a friend in the Ariège told us that the snow’s reached there too – not sent from our end though, but driven northwards from Spain. By lunchtime, the news on the French channel TF1 had made the snowy Ariège its special feature.
We might as well stay here then. The papers and radio repeat regular warnings of the ‘is your journey really necessary?’ variety, and they’re probably right. With grit and salt in short supply, the roads aren’t getting any easier, and the temperatures are dropping.
Here’s a miscellany of Harrogate photos: the town centre, chilly allotments, chillier birds, snowmen and similar, icicles….all a record of this extraordinary January
‘Christmas shopping in the snow. A white Christmas. A whiter new year. Christmas in the Ariège? No, apparently not. It was mild and sunny there. Instead, this was Christmas and New Year UK style. The days in England were very odd for us. We’d wake up to glittering, powdery snow on the streets, and hungry birds scavenging for crumbs. We’d fail to drive the car up the road, because we live at the bottom of a hill, and the poor thing couldn’t get a grip: 4x4s, usually so derided in our urban setting, had the last laugh, because only they could go anywhere much.
From our window.....
Visits to friends were cancelled. Their visits to us were abandoned. All because of the snow. It wasn’t so very deep, admittedly, but in urban and suburban England, we’re just not geared up to dealing with it. No snow chains on the cars, not enough grit, not enough salt. And it’s not so surprising we were unprepared. Until last year’s freak snowstorms, many English children had only seen snow on skiing holidays or Christmas cards, so why would local authorities plan for anything worse than the occasional sleet shower?
So here are some pictures of life in cold and snowy Harrogate. Emily and I even made a mini snowman. He’s mini because making him was like trying to model something in very cold granulated sugar. The snow wouldn’t stick together. We had fun trying though, and though he was very small, he was a little monster’
All that was written before The Big Snow. The Big Snow suddenly descended here sometime after 4.00 a.m. on Tuesday 4th January, the day we were due to set off back for France. The Big Snow decided otherwise. Harrogate; like much of Northern England, was closed for business. No buses, no schools, few people at work …. but lots of snowmen suddenly populating the streets and gardens –even an authentic looking igloo in the next street along. It was fun at first, and lovely to look at. Then reality began to bite. Slogging to the distant shops through 8’’ of snow, with streets and roads ungritted isn’t much fun. Not everybody can work from home, and too many of those who couldn’t get to work, either had their wages docked, or had to take a day from their annual leave allowance. There’s still a bit of a holiday atmosphere, but the novelty’s worn off, especially as the Big Snow has become the Big Freeze and is going to continue, it seems.
Franklin Road, Harrogate
When will we be able to leave for France? Who knows. The South has taken over from the north as Snow Capital of the UK, and we’ve been very firmly advised against travelling (anyway, we still can’t drive the car up our hill). From what we can see, northern France is a winter wonderland as well – with added fog.
I’d like to add more photos – I will later. But I’m working with a dongle, and if you’re geek enough to know what I’m talking about, you’ll know it’s not ideal
Here we are, still in Harrogate. We’ve given up trying to sell the house. Perhaps we could rent it out instead?
From Pyrenees to Pennines 
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