From a long line of lovely bloggers....

Ayak, whose Turkish Delight blog is just what it says, has given me this Kreativ Blogger award...with no strings attached!

I would like in turn to pass it...no strings attached to....

Susie at Desperate Anglo Housewives, Bordeaux who makes me laugh and who has wonderful recipes.
Don't read the 'Ouch' post unless you want to pucker up in a sensitive area.

The Accidental Farm-Girl, for the great way she describes her adjustment to a new life...and she has another blog too, rather wilder, which you can discover for yourselves.....

and

Grumpy Old Ken for whom the award - in whatever language - must have been created.

I know some bloggers think these awards are childish, or, in one case, given out together with cookies which track your path on the net with sinister intent, but I think they are a great way to share great blogs.

The steergoround.....

Cinnamon tree (Photo credit: santheo)Yesterday we had a steergoround.
One would appear in the garden and be hooshed off to the corral.
Then another...same process.
Then another....

You would think that they were hobbits and we were Beorn.

Once gathered into the corral they would mooch off again and the steergoround would start all over again.

It was too late to find the break in the fence...so this morning we awoke to all five of them happily munching the grass alongside the fish ponds.

But not only the grass. Their midnight feast had involved plantains....plants knocked down to get to same....the leaves of several orange trees....and my one and only cinnamon tree.

Nowhere near the size of the tree in the picture above, only one year old, the poor thing had been torn to bits, stems lying all around as one steer after another had had a go at it.
I can only assume that cinnamon was not flavour of the month in steerland.

Still, it urged me on to have a go at harvesting what we had.
I took a kitchen knife and stripped the stems.....fine curls of skin with the most wonderful sweet scent.
My hands still smell of cinnamon hours after putting the curls of skin to dry.

Another first for me in this new life.

El Jefe....and Dad.

You can call me Prince Monolulu because......

                                                          I Gotta Horse!

I haven't kept horses for years, so when the chap who rents our grazing for his cattle asked if his peon could graze his horse with them I was only too pleased.
A day or so later the barking of the dogs alerted me to an arrival, which proved to be the said peon with his little boy - hardly older than a toddler - perched on the back of a brown and white mare which had clearly seen better days, walking head down with a rope round her neck as leading rein.
He installed her in the shed facing the house, cut her some camaroon grass, and he and the little boy stroked her and talked to her while she got down to business.

They came every day....Danilo cut and trimmed sugar cane for her...we bought horse nuts....she settled in.
The father had bought her cheaply...she was all he could afford...as he had grown up with horses and he wanted his son to have the same pleasure.
The little boy gave us pleasure too, stroking and talking to his horse...never noisy, never rough, never making sudden gestures and all was well until the day when father turned up with a cattle lorry.

His wife said he was spending too much money on the horse when they had so little to start with. She said he had to sell it.

What about your little boy?

Well, his first lesson about life...don't love something if you're poor.

Father was nearly in tears...it wasn't just his little boy who loved that horse.

We could not see her go off in that lorry, back to a weary round of auctions, underfed, not fed at all....so we bought her and she is giving us a great deal of pleasure, she and the little boy, whose father brings him down at the end of his long working day to stroke her and talk to her.

It's not just philanthropy...the rich gringos.
In the short time since her arrival I had recovered that sense of companionship and complicity that a horse can give...the little nudges, the whickers, the biff amidships when the food isn't coming fast enough.....
The incomparable smell of a horse, bringing back memories of all the years when horses were part of my life.

Surrounded once more by tubes of worming paste and tins of hoof oil, anti parasite shampoo, hoof picks and grooming brushes I've lost years!
Rejuvenation pills...who needs them!

I gotta horse!

But if you are not someone of a certain age, not from the U.K. and not one for the geegees you might ask where does Prince Monolulu come in?

As a schoolgirl I lived not far from Epsom racecourse.
Father, being a man for the geegees, was quite happy to book me in at our Australian dentist - another man for the geegees - on the morning of one of the race days so that I missed a day at school and we would set off for the afternoon armed with the racing paper in the hope of seeing home a winner, even though experience suggested that our sure and certain hope would be better centred on the Resurrection than on father's five horse accumulators.

I don't know what Epsom racecourse is like now at the Derby meeting, but when I went with my father there was still just a hint of the Frith picture.

I wouldn't go so far as to say that all human life was there, but there was a fair section of the odder parts of it spread over the Downs, from Gipsy Rose Lee reading your palm in her caravan (modern - for the period) to swing boats and coconut shies, via the boxing booths, the bearded lady and the sanitary facilities housed in a vast white marquee whose function was made crystal clear by the barker at the entrance

'Piddle and poop a penny.'

Raised in the discipline of 'going before going out' however none of our betting budget was wasted on responding to this particular invitation.

Father had his own ideas on the likely winners so was unlikely to take any heed of the tipsters, usually large gentlemen in tight racing silks crouching and flicking whips to give the impression of riding the winner as they worked the crowd around them.
However, he liked to see if the horse he fancied in newsprint was as good in the flesh and so before each race we would go to the paddock to see the runners being led in. But to get to the paddock we had to pass another tipster....

                                                     Prince Monolulu

Unmissable in bright jacket with plumes waving above his head, this gentleman seemed to be a permanent part of the racing world since giving a tip on Spion Kop for the 1920 Derby which came home at 100 - 6. Since then, his fame was guaranteed...even his his tips weren't.
Just mention Prince Monolulu to a racegoer and he would automatically reply with his catchphrase

I gotta horse.....

News on Sunday

Image via WikipediaIt has been hot since quite early this morning, so I'd chuntered through the routines...dogs, chicks, chickens ducks, us....and prepared to read quietly on the balcony until lunch time.

The dogs doing their Baskerville imitation soon roused me and heading for the door loaded for bear I found my fury at disturbance turning to resigned acceptance as I beat back the hounds to let the group of ladies into the house.

Quite a band.

Estrella, Luz, Marta, Ermida and Mery, all sporting parasols against the sun and bearing carrier bags with offerings for Mr. Fly.
Knowing that he is ill, people tend to bring him things good for his health...everything from papaya via noni - an extremely bitter fruit - to sangre de christo - a bark to make a tincture held to be a sovereign remedy from everything from worms to cancer.

Settled with coffee and cake the routine enquiries as to health of all present and their families were undertaken and then there was a little silence before Dona Mery leant forward to say

I don't know if you've heard, but The  Neighbour has been diagnosed with a tumour on his lung. It's supposed to be cancer.'

Now, while my first and reprehensible reaction might be

Serve him damn well right.

A second's reflection is enough to make me realise that this is not actually what I think. No one deserves illness.
Not even The Neighbour.
He might deserve to be beaten within an inch of his life...but not illness.
So I ask if anyone knows how far the cancer has advanced

No, I just heard through his daughter's husband's mother that it was a tumour and when he disappeared last time it turns out he was in hospital in San Jose.

We drink coffee contemplatively. I think we are all thinking of The Neighbour's long and unpleasant career as wife beater, philanderer, swaggering bully and violent lout.

His insults, his arrogance, his tampering with water system and the telephone lines, his attacks on the defenceless.

We haven't been here long, but long enough to have experience of his methods.
He blocked our car with his cattle lorry on a narrow section of the road and, knowing Mr. Fly to be ill, leered through the window at him, passing his hand across his throat and croaking

You'll die soon...you'll die soon.

Like some witch doctor in a crisp white hat with a curly brim.

This was nothing to compare with his attack on Dona Mery's father...then in his seventies...when catching the old man alone on his coffee plantation and beating him so severely that he had to spend weeks in hospital while The Neighbour boasted of his feat in all the bars in town - until being barred from same because the other customers were so disgusted.

Local culture is such that speaking ill of the well is frowned upon, let alone speaking ill of the unwell, so no more is said until Dona Mery gathers her parasol and prepares for departure, her flock around her.

Pausing in the doorway she says

He should never have cheated the monks..

And in a susurration of

Ah, si!

And

God bless you

The party take their leave, mission accomplished.

Sharing...the pleasure of blogging

Ayak, at Ayak's Turkish Delight, has very kindly passed me this Liebster
award. The idea is to pass it along, with each recipient presenting five other blogs with less than 200 followers...to introduce readers to blogs they might not have come across otherwise.

I owe Ayak a great deal....without her I would still be at the boiling of head and throwing heavy objects stage of coping with IT ...not to speak of Blogger.
I still think our 'computing for numpties' would be a handy guide for those who did not grow up with a computer attached to their finger ends....people like me who are still basically unsure about what a 'browser' is...let alone what it does.
I shall be enlisting her support shortly for coping with a laptop equipped with some sort of metal plate with which some optimist expects me to 'navigate'....
Why don't they just print a compass rose on the benighted thing!

Blogging has opened so many windows for me...music and  photography in particular...has unbuttoned me too in my views on the way in which other people live their lives...it has been and is an education.

As always, fulfilling the conditions gives me problems.

I follow some French and Spanish language blogs which are both enjoyable and useful.....but I have the impression that this is English language stuff....but do 'Google Translate' the Costa Rican recipe website on my blogroll...that man can cook!

Then...the 200 followers condition. Crumbs...if I ever get to 200 followers I shall suspect I've inadvertently used some phrase with a sexual connotation! (Which may be how the mega bloggers work..the thought has just occurred to me...)
Some blogs have follower lists...some do not. I'd hate to give offence by indicating...however obliquely...that a blog has fewer followers than is the case.

Still, reminding myself that bloggers are unlikely to bring a legal process against me, I shall take the plunge.

Chez Charnizay...for a view of Loire Valley life from two medievalists...and damn good photographers!

la Mujer Libre...for honesty and humour. A Scot...of course..

The Diary of Amy Rigby...who opened my eyes to a whole new world.

Another Day of Crazy...who has the mother from hell...but British Dad interested...

Prospero's Cellphone...expat life in Corfu...Belgian food..but so far, no cricket.

Thank you, Ayak, for reminding me of all the pleasures of discovery that blogging brings.

While The Men are Away...

The Men are away...so far for two whole days....and it might be three.
They have started the renovations on our house in San Jose and rather than waste time travelling have decided to stay overnight.

They have installed beds, table and chairs, gas ring and a tin opener for the cans of fish which they intend to consume...a diet sure to be supplemented by the offerings of pizza and coffee at the bakery down the road, Argentinian empanadas from the hole in the wall three doors away, dim sum from the China House restaurant round the corner...and perhaps even a beer at the bar across the road.

Not the least attraction of the house is the opportunity it presents not only not to cook...but the opportunity to have the choice of styles of  other peoples' cooking.

I went to San Jose with them on the first morning...not to the house, but to the tax office, avoiding navigational disaster by demanding to be set down by the cemetery rather than trying to drive directly to the building.
They went their way and I went mine.

As it was the first opening day after New Year, there were no queues.
A most helpful gentleman listened to my explanation as to why my tax declaration was late...swallowed by the bank...and entered all the details onto my computerised file. He then gave me a disc with which to download the electronic version of the declaration, showed me how to get round two notable glitches in the programme and sent me on my way without a fine for late declaration.

The people at French tax offices used to be nice too...but they wouldn't have waived the fine.

Home by bus, picking up parcels at the Post Office on the way and then...after the first mad rush to feed the chicks, let out the ducks and hens and play with the dogs....I was on my own.

Eerie.

I've been on my own before....husband's spells in hospital...but this time there is not the continual worry about when or whether he will come round and the long journeys to visit him.

So this is time to do as I please...without guilt.

What have I done then?

Skype has taken a drubbing.
I've telephoned my friends and talked for ages without howls for cups of tea just as I get to the nub of the gossip.

Experimented with the camera...trying to take a half decent photograph of myself. (Thank you, Phil!)
Results variable.
Decided that yes, I definitely do have to straighten up the pair of glasses I sat on last week if they are appearing in said photograph.

Eaten tomato sandwiches for lunch and dinner yesterday, tuna sandwich for lunch today and plan to make a hot and sour soup tonight.
No cauliflower cheeses, no mashed potatoes, no stews, no roasts, no paellas.....no washing up!

Watched BBC television on the computer screen....the programmes I like.

Beaten Amazon into submission enough to download books to the computer. Celebrated by downloading Graham Robb's 'The Discovery of France' as the reviews made it sound so interesting...and was sorely disappointed. Apart from the topographical theme there was nothing new to me.
I shall stick to Susie Kelly.

Slept. My goodness, how I have slept!
No one to wake me from my siesta on the balcony so that I can see a bird which has messed off by the time my eyes are clear enough to see anything.
No one's feet acting like the screws of the Titanic's propellers and wrapping the sheets round themselves until owner of said feet wakes screaming with cramp and has to be released from the swaddling bands.
No one to ask what I think that noise might be at 3.30 am.

The Men have taken the mobile 'phone...to keep in touch. I rang them at the arranged time and got the voice mail. Tried again...same result.
Received hurt 'phone call asking why I had not rung....

Rashly asked how things are going...got it in spades.
Everything from having to search for a builder's merchant who sold sand to a mysterious collection of pipes revealed in the kitchen and a stream running under the house.

How are you coping for food?
Well, the last owner must have been an ecologist. You know how high those ceilings are? Well, he's put these eco bulbs in all the rooms so we had to cook the sausages by sound...judging when they were cooked by the sizzling...

Why didn't you eat in the kitchen? There are two strip lights there....

We've dumped the rubble in the kitchen....

Why won't I be surprised if they roll up this evening.........