Chic Sheep

Yesterday was beautiful, warm, musky with the scent of wet decaying leaves, very much like the first days of spring. After returning a jar of grainy mustard to Therese, who was in her bathrobe and embarrassed to be seen by my husband, Craig and I headed off on a walk up the narrow footpath that starts behind Roger’s house, winds through the woods, past a truffle grove, coming out of the woods at the house of Marcel Marceau’s former wife, and then continues past an almond orchard and a motocross track that’s used once a year for a race. It was relaxing and refreshing to walk the three miles, only coming across one other human, a man in a car when we were near Marceau’s ex’s house.

At ten, the plumber came by to figure out why we’re having hot water problems and to fix the leaking heating pipe in the attic. Last summer we had a new door made to replace an old rotting door which leads into the building that houses the massive electric turbine for the Moulin, along with our water heater and the oil and electric heaters for the house. The door had swollen up so much from the dampness of winter that the plumber had to pry it open with a screwdriver, and pulled a large strip of wood off the side of the door. My husband then spent the afternoon shaving the edge of the door down until it fit.

In the afternoon, Blanche, Soixante-Douze and I took our first walk together since Souixante-Douze arrived. I quit walking with Blanche when S-D showed up in September because Blanche wouldn’t leave without S-D and because S-D was sauvage, and attempted to run away when we first got her, I didn’t want to take the risk of walking her.

My husband suggested that I only take the sheep for a short walk to the Count’s falling-down chateau; and that turned out to be a good idea. In the old, Olympia days, Blanche would follow behind me and Olympia would languidly bring up the rear. But now, S-D nervously leads the way, Blanche follows, and I bring up the rear. I noticed the unfortunate pecking order that posts youth in the front and relegates the elderly to the back of the line.

As anyone who has met Blanche can vouch, following Blanche is not a pleasant experience. She doesn’t lift her tail when she goes to the bathroom, so she is always sporting a wet, black, urea-stained tail that is most unpleasant to be near if she decides to swish it, or to stop suddenly in front of you on the narrow path. But she’s beautiful if viewed from the front or side.

I kept trying to change the configuration of our small parade, but couldn’t manage it until we turned back for home. Surprisingly, everyone just reversed positions, there was no jockeying for the post of leader. I lead, Blanche followed, and S-D nervously pulled up the rear. Maybe I’ll apply to get a government grant to study the dynamics of flocking behavior in sheep.

My husband said a few days ago, that if I want to get thirty ewes, I could. However, what went unsaid was that I would have to sell the lambs to support the flock. I don’t know if it would be possible for me to sell lambs that would end up on dinner plates. Are there aren’t enough people who want to buy pet sheep. In the newspaper the other day, there was a small flock of pregnant ewes for sale. I would have called to inquire about their breed and price, but since they are due to give birth in January-February, and sheep often require help with their birthing, I didn’t investigate this flock, because no one would be here to help them . . . and I’m certain that the cleaning lady/caretaker would have no interest.

At dinner the other night, Steph our Dutch friend, told me that there is a flock of sheep, kept by a real shepherd that is roaming the communal property and trails of our small village. They are the Causse du Lot breed, of which there are less than 150,000 in the world, all of them in our departement. According to Roger, the pure breed is dying out because they are being cross-bred with larger sheep so the farmer can make more money, Another vestige of the old days that’s slowly disappearing. Blanche is one of these cross-breeds. Her mother had the black raccoon-ringed eyes and black ears, her father was all white.

Blanche has the elegant Romanesque head of her Causse du Lot mother, but not the black markings. Last year I tried to purchase a Causse du Lot companion for Blanche, but couldn’t find any lambs because I was searching at the wrong time of the year. If I had a flock, I want it to be Causse du Lot. There are sentimental people here in France who work on saving these old breeds. There’s one breed of which there are only twenty-five left in the world living in one flock near Bordeaux.

Maybe this afternoon, when we return all agitated from our agitating trip to the lawyer where we will have discussed, in French, the upcoming appellate court case that the Count filed against us, I will calm myself by going in search of the shepherd and his flock.

The famous Paris Agricultural Fair is being held in early March. I really wanted to go this year, to see the fancy, freshly washed, sweet-smelling championship sheep of France. But I will be in the U.S. packing up to move here later in the spring, so I guess that’s some consolation. My friend Nathalie is going to go with a bus full of local farmers. If you’re in Paris in early March, I suggest you go. From everything that people tell me, it’s the vrai France. This is where the annual judging of the fine wines takes place and whre the finest food from all over France is rated. There will be Bresse chickens, Quercy lamb, foie gras (for you California criminals), and every cheese and wine in France: a Francophile or gourmand’s dream come true.

Yesterday, the thought occurred to me that our life here on the farm is idyllic . . . except for the constant water torture: leaking roofs, leaking heating pipes, leaking kitchen water pipes, hot water heaters that don’t work, the Count’s Bleak-House saga trials over the lack of water in the canal, irrigation pipe management in the summer, and the constant scrubbing of our high calcium content water off of the bathroom fixtures.

There’s some lesson about life contained in that conundrum that water, the basic element of life, would cause us constant problems. Perhaps it is that every heaven contains its own hell.