At first blush, it looks as if Cirq is resting after just having devoured a sheep. But upon further investigation, I discovered that Attilla found a bag of Blanche's wool and strewed it all over the yard. 

I try to dislike him . . .after he destroyed two pairs of my shoes, ate my bicycle seat, set the chickens free, broke my buck's leg, strewed Blanche's sheared wool all over the yard, and killed the fish. But he's just too cute. 

Josephine. 

Man Finds Pregnant Sheep in His Bed

This from New Zealand:

O D D S T U F F S T O R Y

Sheep in bed a bit of a yarn 27 August 2005

A Wanaka man may have had the wool pulled over his eyes after he called 111 to report he had woken up to find a sheep in his bed, police say.
Senior Constable Ian Henderson said the 19-year-old man sounded rather traumatised when he contacted police at 2.21am on Wednesday.
"He said he had woken up to find a sheep sleeping in his bed and he was sure it was pregnant."
Police did not ask how the young man came to that conclusion.
Rather than asking the sheep to leave, the man did the gentlemanly thing - he left her to sleep in the bed and he spent the rest of the night on the couch, Mr Henderson said.
However, when he checked on her the next morning, it appeared his bed mate had hoofed it some time during the night and she was no where to be found.
A scene check by police later that morning failed to find any trace of the sheep. "There certainly wasn't any dags, wool or hoof marks in the bed."
The complainant could not identify any distinguishing marks on the sheep, making tracking the animal difficult, Mr Henderson said.
Mt Iron Station is about 500m from the man's flat, but no sheep have been reported missing.
The man has admitted being very intoxicated that night.
Police said there were no further inquiries to be made as the man was feeling sheepish enough.
"I've told him I think his flatmates may have played a prank and suggested he give up the drink."

Link: http://www.stuff.co.nz/stuff/0,2106,3390918a4560,00.html

Our asphalt driveway in the morning. 

Paving Paradise

When we first purchased our farm here, I was told that Roger across the street was very unhappy that Americans were moving in. He could deal with the British and the Dutch, but Americans are where he drew the line.

"Americans pave everything," he lamented.

Yes, Roger, Americans do pave everything, and develop everything and nothing is safe from their monetary greed . . .that's why I love your rural France.

Read about what the U.S. government wants to do with the National Parks . . .
http://www.latimes.com/news/nationworld/world/la-na-parks26aug26,0,1127124,full.story

Spending a week with a clogged toliet taught me to treasure the simple things in life.  

I have a friend who looks like Martha Stewart. And, I'll bet anyone that she entertains MORE than Martha Stewart. Heck, she once even had Martha Stewart show up hungry at her house and she whipped up a snack out of old leftovers. That's bravery of the highest magnitude.

I don't know how my friend can possibly maintain her sanity when she has a daily parade of guests and their attendant children swarming her house.

Last week, I had nine people over for Saturday dinner. Four of them spent the night. By the time they left late Sunday morning, they had stopped up my toliet and broken Napoleon's leg.

They didn't mean to do it. And I will gladly have them back again . . .I'll just dog their every step and only hand out pre-allotted strips of toliet paper.

They were French. And because I'm a Francophile and they were so polite, thin, and soft-spoken, and actually alerted me that the toliet was clogged and that the sheep had jumped over the riverbank while being chased, I can't bring myself to eagerly rail against them as as I would if they had been loud, Big-Mac-devouring Americans or loud, gin-soaked Brits.

Speaking of the British, we have a new one renovating his little shack down the road. He's young and buff and good-looking . . .a descriptive note for my single-friends who are thinking of visiting. (Note that I will confiscate any toliet paper you try to smuggle into my house.)

In reluctant defense of the British, on Wednesday my French-hating friend Norman came racing down the hill to see if I was alright after I had frantically left two messages on his message machine regarding the broken leg of the sheep.

I have to admit that I'm having to re-evaluate my Anglican prejudices. A nice shot of gin would hit the spot right about now . . .

Blanche and Soixante-Douze are life-long vegetarians . . .but they don't force their views on other people. 

American Taliban Strikes Again

Believe me, life is so much more peaceful when you live in a secular society that really does keep religion out of government.

The morning-after-pill is stocked in school infirmaries in France!
(I think the U.S. long did away with the school nurse.)

Barr and the F.D.A. should study how the morning-after-pill has performed over here in France . . . that could answer all their questions:
http://www.nytimes.com/2005/08/27/politics/27pill.html?ei=5094&en=ef09af2f238fe459&hp=&ex=1125201600&adxnnl=1&partner=homepage&adxnnlx=1125140509-HwESFrCfMm8VMSkAubrdvw

Napoleon with his cast. 

Leg of Lamb

What a morning I had . . . not quite as perfect as yesterday’s.

At 6am, I opened the French doors of the kitchen to greet the glorious day. Fed the dog and let the chickens out. While I was walking back to the house, Blanche surprised me by yelling at me.

For the past week, the sheep haven’t been coming around for grain. There’s just too much good stuff to eat out in the walnut grove. In fact, they aren’t coming near the house, so I’m required to check on them a couple times of day to see if any have escaped.

I wasn’t going to feed them this morning, because they don’t need it and I don’t have much left. Besides, I wanted to get going on a long walk with Attila. But, Blanche was persistent and they were all looking at me so cute and hopeful that I couldn’t refuse them.

I fed them and stayed around to admire them. I noticed that the buck, Napoleon, was holding his right front leg in a strange manner reminiscent of his namesake . . . if only his wool vest had an opening in it. I don’t know much about sheep, but I knew that a limp-wristed buck is a problem.

I climbed over the fence and grabbed him. Examining his leg, there was no doubt it was broken below the knee. I raced into the house and called my husband who was still awake in the States. He suggested I contact a doctor friend, but I didn’t want to call him at 11pm his time so I sent an e-mail. I searched Google, but couldn’t find any information on whether a broken lamb leg can be fixed. At one point in our conversation, I thought I would cry.

My husband wished me good luck and retired to bed.

I shredded up an old towel. Cut two splints. But when I tried to set Napoleon’s leg, I realized that it would be impossible for me to do it correctly . . . since I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. By this time, the lamb’s leg was extremely swollen.

Growing up on a farm and ranch I had never heard of anyone putting a cast on a sheep or a cow . . . or an expensive horse for that matter. Napoleon was able to walk so I thought about just letting him recover on his own, to be a cripple for the rest of his life. After all, his only future chore was to impregnate the ewes and I figured he could easily do that with his hind legs and one front leg in tact.

But then I worried that he would get a horrible infection and die from that. After Olympia’s gruesome, drawn out starvation death, I didn’t want to do the sheep hospice thing again.

Figuring it was better to sacrifice him now, while he would still be edible, not futilely shot up with antibiotics, I called my British friend who always tells me how much he likes mutton. He wasn’t interested in the four-month-old lamb, but he said he’d call around for me.

The housekeeper arrived, and I asked her if she knew anyone who would like to butcher and eat a lamb . . .yes, he did. I asked her to call the man. As she sat down to dial the telephone, she offered to call the vet to see if anything could be done.

Unbelievably, the vet said to bring Napoleon in, since from the housekeeper’s description, it sounded to him as if the break could be easily fixed with a cast.

I went across the road and grabbed Roger out of his vineyard. He drove his Deux Chevaux over. I carried Napoleon out of the pasture and Roger and I put him in the truck. I followed behind Roger, smiling at how cute the sheep was looking out of the back window of the Deux Chevaux.

As luck would have it, the handsome vet was assigned to our case. I sat in the examining room with the sheep across my lap. I was wearing shorts. The vet was in a side room making preparations. Napoleon’s was upright. I had his stomach balanced across my two legs. Embarrassingly, he developed an enormous erection that pressed up against my leg. In polite French-fashion, both Roger and I ignored the phenomenon and gallantly made awkward small talk.

The erection persisted until the vet finally arrived and gave Napoleon a shot to sedate him. We lifted Napoleon up onto the operating table, and the vet stretched Napoleon out and tied him up. The vet is very adept at tying knots. As he was tying one of the ropes to a hook in the wall, I asked him if he had read the writings of his fellow Frenchman the Marquis de Sade. “Why, because I can tie knots?” he asked, laughing softly. Roger laughed. I like it when I can make a joke that the French understand.

Napoleon is now in the barn. He’s to be kept isolated for a while so he doesn’t run around. He gets his cast off in a month.

Today’s lesson in living: all of us are alive only because of the kindness of others. So if you get fed up with the world, and its injustice, remember that life itself is an affirmation that there is much more good than evil in the world. (Can’t believe I came to that conclusion!!!)

View from dining room window during a rain shower.  

At seven this morning, I opened the doors to the kitchen where I was promptly pounced upon by Attila in his high-energy puppy way of greeting. I filled up his dogfood bowl and then we walked over to the ad hoc chicken coop to let the chickens out.

I like chickens. They don’t require the attention that dogs demand, and if you want to quiet them down, you just enclose them in a dark room and they go to sleep immediately and they don’t insist that you let them out.

When I was walking back to the house, I felt this overwhelming sense of “perfection.” That everything was exactly as I desired. I wanted for nothing else. My weedy lawn. The sheep peacefully grazing in their pasture. The dog feces decorating the driveway. The moist air of the warm front before the rain shower. The hovel that is our house. The birds singing in the trees. My wrinkled face. The brilliant red of the geraniums. My sick rose bushes. The cat running in front of me trying to trip me. Our IRS audit.

I don’t think that I’ve ever experienced this sensation . . .that there was nothing missing . . .that there was nothing that I yearned for . . .that I didn’t fret for the future . . .that all was right in my little world.

My husband, enlightened intellectual that he is, is a bit superstitious. It comes from years of trading on the options floor. I know he’s reading this, freaking out, thinking I’ve put a jinx on our lives.

I believe that I've finally reached the point where I have jettisoned the real and imagined demands that family, society, religion, the media, et al have heaped upon me; leaving me perfectly happy and content to be myself.

I live in love and peace and joy on a little rundown farm. I didn't write that down as my objective in my high school year book!

Quel beau coq! 

Blanche taking care of her flock. 

I can't tell you how many Americans I talk with who are under the mistaken impression that France is a socialist or communist country.

France is a capitalist society.

However, the French do have an EXCELLENT social safety net.

I believe that Americans inappropriately attack France as being socialist as a way to explain away the U.S. government's inability to figure out a way to create a social safety net that works.

http://www.latimes.com/news/nationworld/nation/la-na-disability21aug21,1,1639906.story?coll=la-headlines-nation

The adolescents . . . as Kevin M. calls them. 

Sheep Cam . . .Blanche leading the flock.  

Panda Cam

It doesn't get much cuter than this!
If you want to relax, and get into the moment, watch this station for a while:
http://nationalzoo.si.edu/Animals/GiantPandas/default.cfm

"To the memory of my dear son, of our brother regretted, Elie Besse, died for France, the 17th June 1915, aged 26 years, pray for him." This is Roger's uncle who died fighting a foreign army that had invaded his country. To the Germans, he was what we call an "insurgent." They never found his body.
http://www.buzzflash.com/contributors/05/08/con05296.html

Attila inspecting the fish pond he destroyed, along with his collection of STUFF which he has dragged out of the barn and placed right in front of the house for me to admire.

Driving back from town today, my neighbor flagged me down to tell me that my five lambs were in the neighbors' noyer, eating the leaves off of his young walnut trees. I had trouble rounding them up until I called for Blanche, who hadn't escaped, and she called them back. Here they are resting after their excellent adventure. 

What's Going On?

Goodness, is a lifestyle revolution finally coming to the U.S.?

I've found two essays this week questioning the American Way of Life and ravaging of the American landscape.

Are people finally waking up to the fact that they've sold their souls to the corporations?

Don't read this if you don't have an open mind . . . it's quite progressive . . . provocative:
http://www.democraticunderground.com/articles/05/08/20_fumes.html

I hope everyone doesn't start moving to France!

Feel free to connect the dots with the following very sad article entitled,
Man Left Behind Suicide Note
http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?file=/chronicle/archive/2005/08/20/SANMATEO.TMP

This is my DREAM FARM that I discovered on a walk. It's situated on a hill, surrounded by pastures. The buildings are ancient and in perfect condition. There is a beautifully carved stone entrance and an elaborate fountain/well head in the courtyard. The ensemble is completely enclosed, and it's within walking distance of a lovely village with lots of shops. 

View of the countryside as seen on my walking route. 

For Whom the Cock Crows

My collection of feces is growing.

I went to the market today to pick up the chickens and the gorgeous gray cock. I put them in the rabbit cages for now, until my husband arrives and can erect a dog-boar-fox-cat-proof fence for them. I’ll post photos of the flock when I have time to take them out of their cages. I’m too busy today.

At 12:30 I’m meeting my American friends, fellow French property owners, for lunch at a restaurant that has been run by the same family for over a hundred years. It’s a favorite of workmen. There isn’t a menu. They just serve you a five course meal and a few bottles of vin de compagne. The ancient matriarch of the family shuffles around waiting on tables. She always makes you feel special by expressing her delight to see you.

This evening, it’s our commune’s all-night-accordion-accompanied village fete where we will celebrate the great joy we feel for having all been thrown together on this little piece of heaven while demonstrating our acceptance of the peculiarities of one another.

I saw our mayor in the market this morning and he said he was looking forward to joining us tonight.

I just picked the apples off of our tree for the two tarts I’m going to make for my dessert assignment tonight. I bought fresh eggs at the market because I didn’t think that the three new hens could lay six eggs by this afternoon.

Besides being a major manure producer, our tiny farm can now provide us with:
wood, lamb, wool, chicken, eggs, walnuts, peaches, figs, raspberries, blackberries, apples, basil, and tomatoes. Oh, and lots of rock for masonry work. Next year we’ll work on getting the garden going. We're on our way to being self-sufficient.

At the market today, I saw the coolest man, fresh from central casting. He wouldn’t need a costume designer or make-up artist if he were to be cast in a movie about France from 1900-1960. He was standing in the market observing the activities while smoking a hand-rolled cigarette – he probably grew the tobacco himself -- he wore a beret, a plaid shirt, a knitted vest, a wool blazer, and brown pants. He had that dignified paysan look. One used to see it in the U.S. too, but now it’s just jeans and baseball caps. I really, really wanted to ask him if I could take his photograph, because in a few years, his “type” won’t exist anymore. But I didn’t know if he would be flattered or angered if I did. So I didn’t ask. I’m always thrilled when I get a glimpse of my “romantic” France.

Walked by a realtor’s office window and glanced at the properties. If anyone’s interested, there’s a beautiful 18th Century chateau for sale, for 6,000,000 Euros. I doubt if it’s located in our area, because the chateaux here are quite simple . . . but still elegant. This one looks like it has to be from up north where the chateaux are frillier.

Here's a very old and beautiful bridge on the most beautiful walking path in the world. 

Here's Attila on the most beautiful walking path in the world.  

It's a little boxy, but it's not a big box store. This is where I buy my wine. A little chateau down the road.  

My major complaint about the U.S. . . .

Mark Morford of the San Francisco Chronicle sums it up beautifully:http://sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/gate/archive/2005/08/17/notes081705.DTL&nl=fix

Attila and husband taking a bath together. 

The Neighbors -- Part Deux

I wanted a dog that would stay with the sheep all day. But after we brought our Australian Shepherd home, I read on the web that they don't stay with the sheep, they stay with the shepherd.

So that means that Attila wants to go wherever I go. When I'm in the house, he waits expectantly outside our door. He doesn't have much interest in the sheep, although a few days ago I did get him to "turn them" for me which was very exciting to watch.

Last night, about 8pm, I heard him barking wildly. When I came out to investigate he was running towards the sheep pasture.

I couldn't see anything, and neither could he, but he heard voices over there. We live in a narrow valley and voices echo back and forth so I was quite surprised that he knew that people were in the sheep pasture, and not at the house across the road.


Two young boys, around the age of ten, were climbing up a large branch that had broken off of a large, dead walnut tree. The sheep were all bunched up and looking at them. I asked the boys what they were doing there, and then told them that it was dangerous to play on the broken branches. I had worried a couple of days previously that the branch might fall on one of the sheep and kill them.

I also told them that the dog was mechant, mean. And as if on cue, Attila started barking and growling at them. I called him back.

The tall boy told me he was sorry to have disturbed me, and then the two of them took off running through the walnut grove and crossed over a dry diversionary canal, heading back to the house of THE NEW NEIGHBORS who aren't British.

Attila and I walked back to the house and I was happy to find out that he did keep track of what was going on with the sheep.

But when I had some time to reflect, I thought that perhaps I had made a mistake in claiming that Attila was mechant, when in fact he's very gentil, nice. I worried that the kids would tell their father, the one who's covered in tatoos, and he might think that he needed to dispose of this menace.

A lot of dogs mysteriously die around here after consuming rat poison . . . which is probably provided to them via a steak.

Cows I'm considering . . . just kidding, Honey! 

Le troupeau de moutons. Therese told me this afternoon that she enjoyed looking out from her vegetable garden this morning and seeing the sheep lined up on the high riverbank eating the weeds . . . she said the sheep were JOLIES . . . it felt good to know that I was finally adding some ambiance to la vrai France.

If you'd like to RAISE the quality of life in your neighborhood, live a more European lifestyle, you might want to get behind this idea:
http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2005/08/14/EDGSHDTTGG1.DTL

Who says sheep aren't romantic? 

Chickens Coming to Roost

While we're on the subject of male end caps . . . I ordered a live cock and three hens. I'll pick them up from a lady at the outdoor market this Friday.

My husband had a fit . . . I think.

I couldn't really measure the degree of his displeasure because we were instant messsaging as we DISCUSSED the chickens.

I think I calmed him down when I pointed out that if he didn't like these animals, I didn't care if he ate them.

Before he signed off he wrote, "NO MORE ANIMALS!" Then he sent me an article about milk not being healthy . . . propaganda against milk cows.

Many thanks to Colin, who's not really British, for figuring out how to turn Attila around.