Uh-oh, the bees came back

They left our statue and made their hive in an albizia about a hundred metres from Le Couvent. Two men wearing space suits (with handy visors in the rear of the headpiece - presumably for when you need eyes in the back of your head) trotted up the tree and seemed to be brushing them out with a wallpaper brush. The bees dropped into a box primed with honey, then were tipped out onto a white sheet where they lay obediently until he opened a wooden hive and they flew in. All very quiet and unhurried. Meanwhile M. Descouens, the village honey man who thought he might have to crawl along our roof, stood by with only his cloth cap for protection. He was accompanied by an even braver bloke in shorts and a t-shirt.

The joys of cycling in Roujan

At the moment we have some lovely singers staying at Le Couvent. They're all on a singing course in the village - and they have a chunk of each afternoon off. Three of them decided to borrow the convent bikes for a sortie to the Chartreuse de Mougeres.

Within moments of leaving the village the were accompanied by a big Rottweiler puppy. Before you get too alarmed, she was a delightful, friendly and sweet dog. However, she wanted to go with them, and was relentless in her quest. Faced with no choice, they turned back to the convent. Ali took the willing dog off to the Mairie (town hall) where the staff all looked horrified and asked her why she'd taken it there. Presumably she was supposed to leave it in the street, despite the fact it liked charging at moving cars. At that moment another worker from the village came in, said he knew the owner and would take her to him. Phew.

Our intrepid cyclists had set off once more and had a wonderful, unaccompanied, ride through the vineyards.

The slow food movement

There exists in France a group of people who extol the virtues of slow eating. Flynn the husky has joined them. He never eats standing up. He just can't be bothered.

Divine jazz

Our lovely Aussie visitors went over to Pete Churchill’s jam session at La Maison Verte yesterday, on their last night here, and were rewarded by listening to two of Britain’s finest jazz pianists (possibly the world’s) letting rip just for us. (Pete’s wife , Nikki Isles, is one of Britain’s best current jazz composers – they were both up for an award last year for ‘Best Jazz Educator of the Year’ – he won. But all in the family so who cares.) Who needs the Festival or Albert Hall when you have a Roujan. Ain’t life sweet? I still gasp at it all.
We’re screening the fabulous Australian movie ‘The Castle’ here at the Roujan Roxy (aka Le Couvent) on Wednesday night for his singing course. What will the new Americans arriving on Wednesday think of all this? Lord, lord, our Trip Advisor ratings may plummet – or soar. Who knows, C’est la vie. We shall find out.

Phew, the bees have flown

After a few days' worry the bees have disappeared. I read on the internet that honey bees swarm, laden with honey, and scouts go off to find somewhere suitable to make their hive - a sort of B&B search. Once found the vast majority clutter off to establish their hive, along with the queen. A few dim and greedy bees get left behind, busily lapping up the honey drips in the arms the Madonna, but die over the subsequent few days, unable to survive without the rest of the colony. Sad but sweet.

Virgin honey

A swarm of bees in May is worth a load of hay;
A swarm of bees in June is worth a silver spoon;
A swarm of bees in July isn't worth a fly.

Oh dear, three days ago the skies blackened above the head of the statue of the Virgin Mary on our roof. I thought Roujan had suddenly become Surrey on a Sunday morning with every lawn-mower buzzing busily. But no, a huge swarm of bees was circling looking for a place to make their hive. I fear they've settled on the crook of Madonna's arm. I'm no expert so I really have no idea. The vast majority disappeared, but there is still quite a number of bees buzzing around.

I asked M Descouens, the village bee man, what I should do. He looked horrified and said he couldn't go on our roof. His wife concurred. He must be about 85. I hoped he might be able to give advice from the safety of the ground, but the best he could come up with was 'call the pompiers'.

I haven't called them yet. What am I going to do with a load of hay?

Feisty hen

Hooray. St Ivel proved mightier than Ali and I, resisting all attempts to continue with the injections. Despite two pairs of hands and a towel to wrap her up, Ivy managed to wrestle free, so we, rather pathetically, gave up. We figured that if she was strong enough to defeat us she was probably strong enough to live. They've all finished the water-borne antibiotics and are on splendid form, including Ivy. As soon as my camera battery's recharged (needs antibiotics too) I'll take a snap and whoosh it to this post.

Are there no doctors in the house?

We're just back from the vet's. Poor St Ivel the hen was looking rotten over the weekend and I thought she was egg-bound. We tried dunking her in warm water (trick given on the internet) to no avail. Not surprising really, as the vets decided she has peritonitis. She's had a shot and I've had instructions to inject her every day for five days. The other hens are being treated in their water too. Now I've never given an injection to anything before, so I approach this with trepidation.

The two guests who left this morning were doctors. I wish they were still here.

Wednesday means Clermont Market

At the moment we have some guests from Australia and the UK who are old friends and have met up here to share a week together. This morning they're off to the market in Clermont l'Herault and then on the St Guilhem le Desert. Of course they have no idea of the lusciousness that awaits them. The market will be full of strawberries, asparagus, cheeses, hams, sausages and fish, not to mention loads of dodgy clothes and handbags as seems the norm for all markets these days.

And when they arrive in St Guilhem they'll be in one of the most beautiful villages in France. Lucky them.

Cherries and Stoolball

Well the season has well and truly started. I'm up at 6.15 each day to take the dogs to the vineyards and prepare guests' breakfasts. This morning it is beautiful, like so often. It's still slightly cool at that time so I'm able to cycle the dogs without wrecking the work of the earlier shower. This morning I picked a bowl of wild cherries for breakfast from a tree in the vineyards.


Last weekend we had a fantastic team of Stoolball players here. We managed to haul together a team to play a couple of matches against them. I guess you may never have heard of this game as it's really only played in Kent and Sussex in England. But it's fantastic fun and playable by all ages. Have a look at the National Stoolball Association site for details, and here for a full match report. It was a noisy and jolly weekend as the team filled the house and they must have enjoyed it almost as much as us because they've already booked to come back next year.