Diary of Covid-19 confinement, day thirty-one

Lasagne

Day thirty-one, 16^th April 2020

Lasagne love

Thursday now has its own little lockdown tradition for us, as for the last three weeks it’s become lasagne/pasta bake day. This is me at my most organised. I prepare the homemade bechamel and the veggie sauce during the afternoon, layer it all together and leave it to rest. I can then relax into my evening yoga class with no nagging thoughts about what I need to do for dinner bothering my head space. Adrian is then in charge of preheating oven and ensuring dinner is ready to serve as yoga finishes. This means by nine o’clock we are ready to join our friends online as we take part in a virtual pub quiz together. 

I’ve always had a love-hate relationship with lasagne because as much as I love it, it takes more preparation, more time and certainly more washing up than my usual pasta dishes. Having a reason to prepare it has not only rekindled my love for it, but I’m also finally using up the many half opened boxes of lasagne sheets that seem to have been multiplying at the back of the cupboard for ‘a while’.

Adrian in his pain cave

La Poste comes good, at last

While many public services are operating almost as normal in France, La Poste (the post office) was very quick to close the doors of many of its branches and follow that with a suspension of mail deliveries on all days except Wednesdays, Thursdays and Fridays. We are quite lucky in the village as our boulangerie is also a sub post office, so we could buy stamps and leave small parcels during boulangerie opening hours. However, when Bernadette asked if I wanted priority delivery on my letter to the insurance agency, we both laughed, as it seems pretty pointless paying for something you just know is not going to happen.

Adrian has been hopping up and down every time we catch a glimpse of a yellow post van in the village, as almost three weeks ago he ordered some bits from a cycling company in Germany. Knowing getting out and cycling would prove to be difficult and not having a 4000€ Smart Cycle training system like Peleton or Zwift, he did what he does best (and what I love him for); research, problem solving and coming up with his own (cheaper) solution.

We already had a turbo trainer that he’d set his road bike up on, but most online virtual training video sessions are based on more than just sitting on a bike and pedaling. Buying sensors to attach to his bike, that give him his cadence and speed, means he can connect to the virtual cycling world, joining others on rides, racing and being able to climb mountains and have the feel of gradients. However, he was beginning to fret that lockdown would be over before they arrived. A few days after ordering, DHL Germany passed his precious parcel into the hands of La Poste, and there it sat. The online tracking showed no update, day after day, even on the days they were working. But good news! Today the postman beeped from the driveway and approached my outstretched hands with a box that made my man very happy.

With the sensors in place and the app downloaded, he has already tested climbing his first mountain and hasn’t stopped chattering excitedly about all sorts of things that made absolutely no sense to me whatsoever. 

Lunch in Nice, 16th April 2008

April holiday memory 

Today I am looking back to 16^th April 2008 when we spent a sunny day in Nice. We were staying in Beaulieu-sur-Mer, and on the map Nice didn’t look too far away. Road trip holidays always mean lots of sitting in a car, so we decided our legs needed a good stretch and set off to walk the coast road through Villefranche and over the headland into Nice. Let’s just say the seven and a half kilometre walk was a little more challenging than expected, with gradients of around 20% in places, but it did mean we had earned our lunch, and after a relaxing afternoon on the beach, we did the sensible thing and caught the train back to the hotel.

Stay indoors, stay safe.

Lockdown library

My reading selection today is for the two Penelope Kite novels by Serena Kent, Death in Provence and Death in Avignon. Great fun reads with lively characters, a few dastardly deeds thrown in and mysteries to be solved.

Sitting waiting

The view from the dog walk this afternoon

I spent my morning in a quiet, sunny spot, waiting and planning. Today is a rare day, my diary is empty; no meetings, no taxi-ing Ed to appointments or lessons, no shopping, no magazine deliveries, no yoga class, no library duties and no English Conversation club. Today it is just my animals, my garden and me.

Whilst waiting for the morning dew to dry before I could mow I was planning my attack. Which bit of garden do I mow first? Should I lop the low hanging quince branches that get in the way when mowing now, or leave them for another day? The sun is out so maybe I should wash the dog bed? With over fifty eggs to use I must leave time to bake something, but what do I fancy?

I was also waiting for the postman. We have (another) new one and I'm not sure he knew where we live. We are set back from the road in a little square or 'impasse' and the helpful village plan lists it with an incorrect name! This has caused problems for couriers but never before for La Poste. However, we are waiting on customer cheques, packages we know have been despatched and other mail, but our post box has been empty for a whole week. I've enquired at the village boulangerie (font of all local knowledge and sub post office) to see if they can point him in our direction today. The dog walk would wait, I wanted to rush out when I saw his little yellow van, smile and greet him with a cheery bonjour, collect my packages and letters without him having to leave his van, thank him and wish him a bonne journée. If I'm friendly and helpful he might remember where we live and call again tomorrow.

With the excitement of a postal delivery over there was no time to sit back in my sunny spot until early this evening. Then, with a glass of rosé to celebrate I was pleased with what I've achieved  - washed the dog bed and sofa covers, lopped the quince trees, walked the dog and mown the front and back gardens. That will do for a day with nothing to do.

Village Postal Service

When we moved to France our house had been empty for a while and the previous owners had boarded up the letter box so as not to have it overflowing with the weekly 'pub' from the supermarkets detailing their latest offers. The village post lady at the time was undeterred by this and quickly deduced from the name on our mail that we were English so delivered the post to the closest English neighbour in the village, until she was able to speak to us herself. She was always smiling and cheerful and we were happy to offer her a punnet or two of cherries each summer and buy her calendar each Christmas. It may not have been a standard service, but she was always happy to collect post from the house and take it back to the sorting office. If you hadn't got a stamp she would either sell you one, or take the money, weigh the letter and return with your change the next day. Then she retired.

This years Almanach du Facteur - so much more than just a calendar!

The new post lady wasn't quite as cheerful as the previous one had been, but I kept smiling and waving to her whenever our paths crossed. Her first Christmas was the point when our relationship took a little turn for the worse. She appeared in the kitchen, which as we have a dog who is not too keen on strangers was a brave, but foolish thing to do. As I am trying to keep the dog from attacking her she is offering me a choice from her selection of calendars. It is a very French thing to sell calendars each year and the firemen, postmen and kids from the local sports clubs are all queuing up in December selling their calendars to help raise some money. The post office calendars are often hung on to for many years and we always spot some very old ones for sale at the vide greniers (car boot sales). As with the previous post lady  I agreed to buy one, but when I opened my purse found all I had was 3€, which she took with a Gallic shrug and told me I could leave more in the letter box for her later. However as this was at the end of one of our bad years work wise I didn't leave her anymore, big mistake! That year our post deliveries were so erratic I even started noting when we got a delivery to see if there was a pattern. Oddly enough we rarely got mail on a Monday. We are the only permanent residents of a small impasse (dead end) so I guess we are a nuisance to her round. The second year I made sure I paid a bit more for the calendar, that I never use but stuff it in the kitchen drawer that is full of other things I don't use. Service did improve, but what really helped was the day she pointed at a letter with some pig themed stamps on them and asked if she could have them, I guess stamp collecting is as good a hobby as anything else for a postie. After this we were best of friends, nothing was too much trouble and all was well with our deliveries. Until she retired last week.

Here we go again, I'm thinking to myself. I have met Arthur, the new young postie, but I've also seen him speeding past the end of our little road more times than I've seen him turning in, although he did manage to deliver a bill this morning. We have already been warned that there are no guarantees that the extra services our village has come to accept as normal over the years will continue with the new 'facteur'. In addition to collecting our outgoing mail it was not uncommon to see the post van parked up outside the houses of some of the older residents of the village, where in winter I often saw them bringing in firewood from the outhouses and no doubt they shared some gossip and a petit pause de café. I guess only time, and calendar sales figures, will tell what sort of postie Arthur will become. At least we are lucky to have a 'Point Poste' at the village boulangerie where we can buy stamps, send and receive parcel deliveries and post our letters at the same time as buying a croissant. We are lucky, not all villages have these services.