Is it snow?

The sky was an unusual blue-grey and there was a penetrating chill in the air.

 The veranda thermometer registered 4 degrees.

Cliona came home from shopping and said she thought it had been snowing between Tonneins and Laparade.

I checked the local weather forecast. It said nothing about snow.

But my anticipation was piqued.

Then, something started to happen.

"It's snowing," Cliona said excitedly.

I rushed out of the warm living room and was hit by cold air.

I could see white dust on the black lid of our rubbish bin.

Hand outstretched, I collected pinhead-sized pieces of frozen rain falling from an arctic sky.

This wasn't snow.

I retreated into the house, disappointed.

The gate bell rang.

A hirsute man in a lumber jacket, clutching a folder, stood next to a white Renault van.

"I'm doing the census," he said. "You should've received the forms in your letterbox."

Then I remembered. I did receive some forms, but discarded them.

Guilty, I used that classic, disingenuous response, "Sorry, French is not my mother tongue."

"Never mind," the official said, "we can do it now."

"Ok," I said. "In that case you'd better come inside, out of the cold."

As we walked to the door, I tried to make small talk.

"I thought it was snowing," I said.

"Juste les toutes petits flocons (just tiny little flakes). It hasn't snowed properly here for six years," he said.

The census officer sat with me at our dining table as he filled out the forms, one for the house, one for me, one for Cliona.

His large hands were hairy and he was missing a left little finger.

A raging fire threw out good warmth but the room stank of smoke.

Cooking odours from the kitchen wafted in to attenuate the smell.

He expected Cliona's surname to be Hull. I said it was Martin.

"So, you are co-habitating?"

"No, we are married," I said.

He looked surprised.

"Yes," I said, "married women don't necessarily take their husband's name these days."

I'm not sure he agreed.

He put the completed forms into his leather folder.

I escorted him back to his Renault van.

It was still very cold but the menacing clouds had started to break up, revealing patches of blue sky.

The squirrel

My Australian tongue finds its French name unpronounceable. I may have to live here a dozen years before I succeed.

In  the meantime, I take great pleasure in this little chap. I could watch him for hours, playfully scampering around the garden, foraging for walnuts.

He is a nervous little Herbert. He props, puts his head up to look around, then resumes his hopping run.

His tail is a russet colour just like his body, and as long. We have seen another with a darker tail, maybe his mate?

Our little furry friend audaciously climbs onto the verandah table where Cliona has a basket of walnuts. Using his front paws, he plucks one from the basket and nibbles at it, before scurrying away, only to come back for another a few minutes later.

I've named him Herbert

Blue sky, white frost

The face of winter has changed, from grey to blue.

The rain has eased. The clouds have broken up. We've had the first frost for quite a while, covering the grass and sealing the car in an opaque sheet of ice.

The Lot, swollen and turbulent for weeks, has resumed its gentle, glassy undulation.

The sun makes an appearance and angles into the kitchen through a window, throwing rays onto a tray of vegetables we bought this morning at St Livrade.

The fire burns bright in the hearth. Last night, we put on some well-cured pine logs, complete with needles ... and were treated to a fireworks display.

The rain and the river

The rain is constant, though not heavy. It blows in under the veranda, making the terracotta tiles slippery.

The wild wind pulses through the trees and over the roof. It creates a down-draft in the chimney and the smell of soot and stale smoke permeates the house.

The Lot is swollen and rages under the Castelmoron bridge, inundating the town beach.

The barrage, where EDF generates hydro-electricity, is releasing huge volumes of water.

Sluice gates upstream must be holding the deluge back, because the level has dropped dramatically outside our house. The boat is high and dry. Muddy banks and fallen trees are exposed. I reckon the Lot has fallen two feet, while downstream it has risen in a churning, frothing torrent.

boat is high and dry 

a detritus of mud and exposed branches

the boat ramp in autumn 

a raging torrent encroaches ...

the EDF barrage is releasing huge volumes

where the river beach once was

this was the  Lot at Castelmoron last winter

Essaouira pics

alleyways for artisanal products

hidden treasure

a thuya wood workshop

Moroccan spices ... note the Berber viagra!

a white-washed city by the sea

this photo sums up our Moroccan adventure

beach scene

Morocco ... part seven

Our little car swings down through the hills towards the coast, to Essaouira ... manifesting in the distance, growing large and taking form.

It is a white-washed city against a blue sea. I am concentrating on the road but succumbing to excitement.

We park at Bab Marrakech at the edge of the old town and hire an amallum* with a handcart to push our baggage 300 metres to the Riad Amana, a little hotel in a nondescript alleyway.

I love this town. I love its colour and romance, and the commerce that enlivens its streets.

I've loved this place since my first trip here with Ahmed 40 years ago. I was captivated by Essaouira then and I am re-experiencing it now.

Memories of our time together are revived by familiar landmarks, by the salty air and the mournful cry of seagulls wheeling over the ramparts of the boat harbour and the colourful fishing boats tied up there, by the smell of sardines cooking over charcoal, by the perfume of thuya wood jewellery boxes for sale in tiny shops, by the sight of cloistered women, mysterious and unapproachable under white sheets...

I am not sad, but joyful because I am here with my daughter and life is sweet, as sweet as a mint tea on a cafe terrace with a view of the sea and Mogador Island just off the coast.

* an idle old man who springs into action at the promise of reward..

Morocco ... part six

For the four days we spent walking around Marrakech's old city, young men on scooters were a scourge. They tore through the narrow streets of the medina like bats out of hell, whizzing past our shoulders, slicing a path through the crowd with a swashbuckling disregard for public safety.

Our Airbnb host Didier said there were seven scooter crashes in and around Marrakech every day.

To embark on the next leg of our journey, we brave the traffic along the Route des Remparts to drive south-west towards Essaouira.

Kamikaze scooters are everywhere, overtaking, undertaking, cutting in, weaving out, doing crazy, dangerous stuff.

An hour and a half later, the traffic is thin, with very few scooters, as we wind through desiccated hills towards the Atlantic coast.

We pull in to the Khmissa Argan. This is a hamlet of small buildings where Argan oil is produced and sold.

In a room resplendent with Berber carpets and cushions, a group of old women sits patiently hand-crushing the nuts and extracting the precious oil that is used in cosmetics and cooking.

The nuggety Argan tree, with its long, needle-sharp thorns and dusty-green leaves, populates the gullies and ravines of this arid landscape.

Argan oil is a huge domestic and export industry and an economic boon for this part of Morocco.

Goats climbing in the trees, deftly avoiding the thorns to gorge on the little green nut, has become something of an iconic Moroccan image.

a Moroccan industry dominated by women, both in production and distribution

providing valuable employment for village women

the Argan tree

photo courtesy Google images