The metal table where I sit next to the pool at the ecurie shakes with each strike of a key on my computer and I use a paper towel for a mouse pad. Normally I would be annoyed at the constant shaking, but I am both rural and French here and so I literally go with the flow. The wine in the glass to my left is shaking with every strike too. Seems we’re all in this together. As I contemplate what I want to write, I procrastinate and read the label on the bottle. It’s from Saint-Emilion, about 40 kilometers from where I sit. I ask Roy what the wine cost. I can’t help it, the constant comparing of every little detail of life here in France to our life in London. Roy makes his thinking face, never one to give an estimate. It always amazes me that he rarely wonders why I am asking a question, he just wants to get it right. 12 Euros he finally announces. 12 Euros. Now that’s something! And the procrastination continues… What would this bottle cost in London, or worse, in New York City? 12 Euros. 12 Euros? And it’s really good. Roy sits across from me reading, we are both too tired to speak. The plans for the house are finally complete and are now in the hands of Monsieur Verduger, our project manager. Work is scheduled to begin in November, so this summer it’s the bell tents we purchased in London and dragged down on a trailer hitched to the back of the car, marking the first time Roy was forced by a power different and stronger than myself to limit his road speed. Our land is still inhospitable and seems to want to spit us out every time we try to move onto it. The brush we cut down over an entire month last October was back with a vengeance this June, looking as if we had never been there. I have been told by more than one person to appreciate how fertile the ground is, but I think I’ll wait to apply that sort of optimism for when we are not growing exclusively weeds. Our fields have been rich in agricultural product for centuries churning out grapevines, and trees of walnut, plum and fig. This summer, our plan is to stay a couple of weeks in our friends’ renovated ecurie until the campsite is in a state suitable to host humans. We have no water or electricity in the area we designated but it has the best view so we are determined to make it work. As luck would have it, Roy can work wonders with a hose which now runs from the old cow barn, across a field, into and out of the old chicken coup, through a hole in the stone wall into the wine-making area of the barn with splitters sending the supply in three directions; to a sink, a shower, and a nozzle for more practical applications. I had managed to re-establish the electrical account weeks ago from London and we expect the electrician next week to install outlets and some basic lighting. For the 15 days we have been in France, we’ve been setting off for the property first thing in the morning and returning to the ecurie in the evenings. My body aches and my brain is in a state of fog. Roy is still working his real job during the days and pushing harder on fumes than I have ever seen him. Today he whacked his head three times on various corners of things, yelped in pain, and kept on working. If he can keep going, so can I. And while I wonder what all the head bashing will do to his mental capacity in the long run, right now it still seems worth it.
