Two small pieces about recent events. Life in the village has hotted up, just as the weather has cooled down. I'm just grateful that we have a wood-burning stove to make hot tea when we are working. Obviously this is based on fact but some elements have been embroidered where necessary!
October 2024
To be honest, I had no idea of what Bosko had in mind, or what was possible with a man-and-a-digger. Incidentally, the man in question is a character called Vrba - I love the nicknames they have here. "Willow" should really be the name of a West London leggy blonde. But I digress. However, given the parlous legal state of the land, we didn't really want to proceed without being named on the official documentation.
***********
So here we are on the cusp of actually getting our village home. It’s taken us three years to get here and the lawyers are coming with us next week to get the land registry maps finalised. According to the existing maps, next door’s goats are legally entitled to the bottom of the garden, and we don’t have access to our outdoor toilet.
Some might say that this is mildly inconvenient.
“You do realise that this is going to get up the village for gossip for the next 6 months?”
“What, us going to the village with a court expert, a lawyer and a judge”. I wonder whether I should wear heels and a suit for these dignitaries. “Perhaps they will think the city dwellers are invading?”
I mean, I’m vaguely anxious about being the only Brit in the village. But how is this any different from being on an island? Are villagers more insular than islanders? I suspect there will be a stream of visitors to see the man of the house - famous for his “leave me alone” - and I will be an object of curiosity. We will see!
November 2024
She came toddling over the stripped off land, white hair covered in a back headscarf, determined, knobbled cane in her gloved hand.
It’s the first time in 20 years since anyone has been able to walk through the old vineyard. After some serious remodelling of the neglected landscape by a man-with-a-digger there is nothing there now but a sea of red earth and upturned roots. Tough going enough for me in my walking boots, but not for tiny Baba Mare, she stepped over each rock and in no time at all reached us, standing waiting up by the house.
Due to language constraints and a lack of teeth, the conversation between her and Bosko was largely incomprehensible but I got the gist.
“Do you remember Ante and Anita, up the road, down by the forest - you know - the people who had a shop in the village?”
Bosko shakes his head. “No I don’t know those people”
“Did you hear that so-and-so had an accident? Such a shame, he worked so hard to buy his car.”
He opens his mouth to reply he hadn’t heard anything about it. But she was already on to the next story. The familiar type of stories that all elderly relatives know.
Ancient Baba Mare had been instrumental in getting the village house signed over to us, as she had been one of the three witnesses required by the court. The judge and court expert had been entertained by her tales of events long past. The time where her nephew and his neighbour had come to fisticuffs over a refusal to sell a field; the time the rabbits had escaped into the kitchen garden and eaten all the winter greens; and the chickens? Don’t even ask about the time when her chickens went missing.
The judge only wanted to know her name, maiden name, address, and how she was related to Bosko’s father. Thankfully the paperwork was duly completed and we owe her a huge debt.
So when she asked us to take her to the cemetery to clear away the dead flowers from the family tomb, we were happy to oblige.
“Have you seen the work that they are doing at the bottom field? There used to be cows all down there… And those trees will never be the same again because...”
The village news machine was still whirring away as we drove the 10 minutes to the tiny church with its massive graveyard. Bosko was nodding and making polite noises, whilst I just smiled to myself.
After a visit from a beloved but voluble aunty earlier in the year, I had been in precisely the same position as Bosko. He had sat quietly and patiently in exactly the same way I was doing then, just listening and enjoying the enthusiasm. It must be lonely living in the village when your immediate family is living and working a fair drive away. Still, I’m looking forward to having regular coffees with Baba Mare, not to mention asking about chicken husbandry and gardening techniques.
Meanwhile, we pulled up outside the church, and hopped out of the car. As you enter, to the left of the church gate there is a massive deep square hole in the ground, which always intrigues me. Every visit, I scuttle past and ask, who is it for? Why is it so deep? Did a village family offend so deeply, they were literally dug up and thrown out?
The hundreds of pots of desiccated All Souls Day chrysanthemums adorning the many tombs made the cold grey day even more colourless. We collected all the dead flowers and disposed of them in the cemetery of discarded greenery. It’s quite sad really, the waste of living plants and barely faded ribbon.
Naturally, we met another of Bosko’s relatives in the church yard - a living one, obviously! She was cleaning the church ahead of the first Sunday in Advent which was on the following day. She outlined much of his family tree before he recognised her. She then proceeded to repeat much of the news we had heard. She let me look in the tiny church which always manages to look all red and gold, regardless of the weather or the time of year.
The many plants we removed from the massive family monument had left both wet and dry rings. Baba Mare produced a small bottle of water and a dirty cloth from her pocket and proceeded to ineffectually smear the polished black marble. It didn’t matter. Bosko ensured that everything looked clean and perfect by the time we were ready to leave. As a final touch, Baba Mare put all the plastic flower arrangements straight and replaced the artificial candles.
***********
“We need to sit down and talk seriously about what we want to do with this property”, Bosko said last night. He’d been really excited about the new strimmer cord that had decimated a small portion of the wild greenery around the house.
He’d also mislaid his gloves, which accounted for the masses of new splinters in his fingers.
“We have no money”, he added as he washed his bloody hands.
He is an optimist, pronouncements such as this not withstanding. It’s true that with no financing it could be difficult to put this old house and garden in order. Still, where's the fun when everything is easy?!
It's not just the garden, it's the house as well. Making somewhere like this place habitable isn’t just about putting in windows and render on walls, it’s about starting a new life. The most important part of crafting your own home is building in memories. Even that avalanche of ferocious wild berries at the front of the house reminds me of happy cake-fuelled winter afternoons.
“We need to sit down and talk seriously about what we want to do with this property”, Bosko said last night. He’d been really excited about the new strimmer cord that had decimated a small portion of the wild greenery around the house.
He’d also mislaid his gloves, which accounted for the masses of new splinters in his fingers.
“We have no money”, he added as he washed his bloody hands.
He is an optimist, pronouncements such as this not withstanding. It’s true that with no financing it could be difficult to put this old house and garden in order. Still, where's the fun when everything is easy?!
It's not just the garden, it's the house as well. Making somewhere like this place habitable isn’t just about putting in windows and render on walls, it’s about starting a new life. The most important part of crafting your own home is building in memories. Even that avalanche of ferocious wild berries at the front of the house reminds me of happy cake-fuelled winter afternoons.
Still, those splinters look painful so maybe he has a point about getting the worst of the violent plants under control with some serious machinery.
Why can't we have an invasion of gentle olive trees?! Gentle because olive foliage doesn’t try to rip your hands off like many of these Mediterranean plants. It's all very well with these tasty useful fruit trees like pomegranate or lemon, but wild pear and blackberry are just mean.
Why can't we have an invasion of gentle olive trees?! Gentle because olive foliage doesn’t try to rip your hands off like many of these Mediterranean plants. It's all very well with these tasty useful fruit trees like pomegranate or lemon, but wild pear and blackberry are just mean.
***********
Some might say that this is mildly inconvenient.
“You do realise that this is going to get up the village for gossip for the next 6 months?”
“What, us going to the village with a court expert, a lawyer and a judge”. I wonder whether I should wear heels and a suit for these dignitaries. “Perhaps they will think the city dwellers are invading?”
I mean, I’m vaguely anxious about being the only Brit in the village. But how is this any different from being on an island? Are villagers more insular than islanders? I suspect there will be a stream of visitors to see the man of the house - famous for his “leave me alone” - and I will be an object of curiosity. We will see!
November 2024
It’s the first time in 20 years since anyone has been able to walk through the old vineyard. After some serious remodelling of the neglected landscape by a man-with-a-digger there is nothing there now but a sea of red earth and upturned roots. Tough going enough for me in my walking boots, but not for tiny Baba Mare, she stepped over each rock and in no time at all reached us, standing waiting up by the house.
Due to language constraints and a lack of teeth, the conversation between her and Bosko was largely incomprehensible but I got the gist.
“Do you remember Ante and Anita, up the road, down by the forest - you know - the people who had a shop in the village?”
Bosko shakes his head. “No I don’t know those people”
“Did you hear that so-and-so had an accident? Such a shame, he worked so hard to buy his car.”
He opens his mouth to reply he hadn’t heard anything about it. But she was already on to the next story. The familiar type of stories that all elderly relatives know.
Ancient Baba Mare had been instrumental in getting the village house signed over to us, as she had been one of the three witnesses required by the court. The judge and court expert had been entertained by her tales of events long past. The time where her nephew and his neighbour had come to fisticuffs over a refusal to sell a field; the time the rabbits had escaped into the kitchen garden and eaten all the winter greens; and the chickens? Don’t even ask about the time when her chickens went missing.
The judge only wanted to know her name, maiden name, address, and how she was related to Bosko’s father. Thankfully the paperwork was duly completed and we owe her a huge debt.
So when she asked us to take her to the cemetery to clear away the dead flowers from the family tomb, we were happy to oblige.
“Have you seen the work that they are doing at the bottom field? There used to be cows all down there… And those trees will never be the same again because...”
The village news machine was still whirring away as we drove the 10 minutes to the tiny church with its massive graveyard. Bosko was nodding and making polite noises, whilst I just smiled to myself.
After a visit from a beloved but voluble aunty earlier in the year, I had been in precisely the same position as Bosko. He had sat quietly and patiently in exactly the same way I was doing then, just listening and enjoying the enthusiasm. It must be lonely living in the village when your immediate family is living and working a fair drive away. Still, I’m looking forward to having regular coffees with Baba Mare, not to mention asking about chicken husbandry and gardening techniques.
Meanwhile, we pulled up outside the church, and hopped out of the car. As you enter, to the left of the church gate there is a massive deep square hole in the ground, which always intrigues me. Every visit, I scuttle past and ask, who is it for? Why is it so deep? Did a village family offend so deeply, they were literally dug up and thrown out?
The hundreds of pots of desiccated All Souls Day chrysanthemums adorning the many tombs made the cold grey day even more colourless. We collected all the dead flowers and disposed of them in the cemetery of discarded greenery. It’s quite sad really, the waste of living plants and barely faded ribbon.
Naturally, we met another of Bosko’s relatives in the church yard - a living one, obviously! She was cleaning the church ahead of the first Sunday in Advent which was on the following day. She outlined much of his family tree before he recognised her. She then proceeded to repeat much of the news we had heard. She let me look in the tiny church which always manages to look all red and gold, regardless of the weather or the time of year.
The many plants we removed from the massive family monument had left both wet and dry rings. Baba Mare produced a small bottle of water and a dirty cloth from her pocket and proceeded to ineffectually smear the polished black marble. It didn’t matter. Bosko ensured that everything looked clean and perfect by the time we were ready to leave. As a final touch, Baba Mare put all the plastic flower arrangements straight and replaced the artificial candles.
Lovely update, It looks really nice, it’s beckoning a full river cottage make over, sorry I am a bit sozzled (mulled wine and mince pies)
ReplyDeleteLooking forward to what Bosko and yourself are doing to the place
Reuben keeps asking to come over but 2 Colley dogs limit us to the great British Isles,
Family all so hello , glad your having fun xxx