October Newsletter

Hello from the Olive Farm where autumn is beginning to display its remarkable colours and offer us its many fruits. Aside from a few very windy days and one heavy overnight rain storm, our stay here has been upbeat, enjoyed beneath endless days of cloudless blue skies. I have managed to be outside as much as possible but have also been spending quite a bit of time at my desk working on my novel-in-progess, which is set in Marseille so we enjoyed a brief outing to that city too.

Time at the farm is always such a gift, after travels. I have been on the road on and off since July, attending festivals and visiting bookshops talking about writing and in particular my latest published novel, ONE SUMMER IN PROVENCE, which many of you have read and I am immensely grateful to you for buying the book and taking the time. Thank you. An extra thank you to all those of you who have reviewed the book on the various sites such as Waterstones and Amazon. It does make a huge difference. So buckets of gratitude.

Yesterday, we had the tree surgeons in to prune back two dangerously overgrown and leaning Maritime pines. Those high up on our hill are not such a worry because when they keel over they thud heavily to the ground taking with them bits of branches from other trees and little else. These two, however, are situated right alongside our lane, hand in hand with the hillside’s electricity lines, a supply for three properties. Let’s not even think of the possible risks to our neighbours’s bricks and mortar. So, it was time to trim them back. Five skilled young men and one woman worked as a team from eight in the morning till late afternoon. After the team had tidied the grounds and left, Michel and I stood quietly in the silence of evening beneath the two trees gazing up in wonder at their majesty and splendour.

Here are a couple of the before and after pics.

The world news is pretty ghastly at present, I am sure you will agree, so I thought I would use this Newsletter to recount to you a true story from village life here. It’s a sad tale but, also, I find it quite inspiring.

I am titling it, ONE DOG BARKING.

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Those of you who have read The Olive Farm series of books might recall that we have a water house down in the valley at the bottom of the hill. It sits in the midst of forgotten olive groves about a five minute hike from our villa. Although that terrain does not not belong to our farm we have rights to access the water house, which is our property.

Pumping water from the valley to the top of our land for almost thirty years was a cumbersome and costly affair, which Michel finally managed to have changed after dozens of letters to the local town hall. When this change took place, it left the little water house empty and redundant and we more or less forgot about it. Until four or so years ago.

Back then we still had our three wonderful dogs and at night the hill would be as noisy as a firework display from a chorus of barking dogs: our trio, one or two pooches from neighbouring houses and, curiously, I identified two distinct barks from down in the valley. I wondered who owned as there are no properties there. Strays, I assumed. Until one day, I encountered a man possibly in his early forties, extremely dishevelled, walking the lane that skirts our farm. He was accompanied by two dogs, both mid-size mongrels in excellent condition. Neither of them on leads. Sometime later, when we’d left our main gates open, I spotted the mutts tearing across our terraces. They were running wild, gleefully bounding with our three until we managed to catch them and return them to the lane. All very harmless. After that, I used to see the man regularly with his canine partners trotting along the chemin en route to the village. The dogs were never attached, but they remained at his side, escorting him purposefully on his outings for food and necessities.

The dogs and owner became very popular in the village. Everyone, as the trio passed by, came out to greet them; to give the man food, cigarettes, bits of this and that. And always a little something for the goodnatured hounds. I soon understood that the man was SDF (sans domicile fixe), homeless. Yet he got on with everyone and the villagers absolutely adored his two companions who would sometimes bustle to the shops and back to wherever they resided without him.

Late one morning, I caught sight of the man climbing the hill. He was sole, without his doggy companions. He signalled to me for a lift. I pulled the car over and asked where he was headed. He mentioned our lane. I told him to get in. As we drove I asked where precisely he wanted to be dropped off. He pointed vaguely in the direction of the valley and it occurred to me then that he was was possibly residing in our erstwhile water house. There was nowhere else. It was a bit cramped for a family of three but, hey … I dropped him off by the path that led to the valley.

He thanked me graciously and set off whistling.

I mentioned the incident to Michel who agreed that we should leave him be. Why not? It didn’t hurt us; we weren’t using the wee house.

Some time later, when I was walking in the valley, I saw that he had vacated ‘our’ house and built himself a little abode across the way on the far bank of the stream, which was about two minutes from his previous address, our shed. Now he had running water, a blazing open fire, a few breeze block bricks erected for back shelter. It was as rough and ready as you can imagine but he had more space and he and the dogs seemed perfectly content there. He waved vigorously when he sighted me.

At night, the canine choruses continued. I could even identify his pair.

Over time, one by one, we lost our beloved furry threesome but the two in the valley continued to bark. And they were regularly to be seen out and about in the village with or without their master, always enjoying caresses and treats from the villagers and shop-owners.

Usually, our local police municipale is super strict about stray dogs. If an officer ever caught one of ours running the streets, it was instantly impounded and would cost me about 150 euros per dog to claim them back. But the officers turned a blind eye to the stranger’s pair.

Then last summer on a very hot dry day I heard helicopters circling overhead and suddenly the screeching of fire engines some distance away. I was inside at my desk, but the sirens grew so loud I was drawn to the terrace. To my horror, the valley was billowing with smoke. I telephoned the fire department and informed them of our location. Five fire engines careened into the lane within minutes. Our cottage (fortunately empty at the time) being south of us would be the first to combust. I was down at the gate, ready to unlock it, to offer water access to the emergency team. The fire was lower than us. It was in the valley. People were arriving from here and there, running to and fro. Firemen were keeping the troubled inhabitants back. ‘There is no need to concern yourselves as long as we contain the fire. No houses down there …’

I stepped forward. ‘But there is. There’s one home down there,’ I called out. The French fire brigade have long been heroes of mine and they did not disappoint. They were off on foot or in several of their lorries before I could finish my sentence. We were all advised to go back to our homes and get on with our day …

It was later that evening I learned, after the fires had been extinguished, that the fatalities were two: one man and one dog.

I felt inexplicably sad.

‘What about the other little lad?’ I said to Michel. ‘Shall we offer to take him?’

But he had already been scooped up by a dog refuge charity.

There was silence in the evenings on the hill. I couldn’t put the man or the dogs out of my mind. Our longtime cleaner talked to me about the incident. She cried. I cried. She lives in the village. We all loved them, she confessed.

Silence for ages.

Then one evening during this year’s midsummer heatwave, I heard a lone dog barking. ‘Listen,’ I said to Michel. ‘It’s the second dog.’ I was sure of it. I recognised the bark. Michel teased me, ‘don’t be silly.’

‘It is,’ I insisted.

And there he was a few days later, the little buster, marching confidently along our lane. He’d escaped from the refuge and returned to the charcoaled remains of his home. He lives there alone now; he is always fed. I saw him this morning in the village, shiny fur, on the pavement outside the town hall. Tongue hanging out, almost grinning, receiving strokes and tidbits to eat. He was surrounded by a small crowd. I giggled to myself, feeling an upsurge of joy. He could be the mayor, I thought, standing there, puffed up proudly.

I have named him One Dog Barking. He entertains our evenings. I like to think that he barks for those whom he loved who have gone before him. He’s a survivor and the villagers have embraced him as part of their lives; he’s part of our local story. One Dog Barking, brave little boy. He lives with the same dignity and freedom of spirit I like to believe his master had chosen to do, albeit briefly.

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I have several ONE SUMMER IN PROVENCE, meet the author, dates still to come before I begin to think about curling up in front of the log fire for Christmas. Bart, my lovely webmaster has put the November ones – all in the UK – into my EVENTS box, so please take a look and please come if you are in the vicinity. I love to meet readers and those who have enjoyed my TV shows. It’s one of the best bits of this job.

Thank you for reading this. Stay safe, stay kind. Love and kindness is what we all need now, and loads of books to read!

If you haven’t read it yet, I thoroughly recommend Autumn Chills, short stories by Agatha Christie. Perfect for this October season.

I hope to see you somewhere before too long.

Carol
xx