We have a newsletter (whisper it quietly, it is not on Substack). For very nearly seven years - since way back in the days when we owned and ran our coffee shop/deli - we have shared stories about the creativity that catches our eye, and we have laid trails of breadcrumbs to guide readers to the things that spark our curiosity.
Every year we gently tweak the format, refining and adjusting it; we hone the shape and change the emphasis to reflect where we are up to in our ‘one wild and precious life’.
This year, we have been writing ‘Postcards from Encouragement Farm’, insights into our gentle life on a small farm in rural France. This is a snapshot of the postcards that were pushed through letterboxes in January, floating quietly onto welcome mats near and far.
7 January
We have been waiting for the 'big chill'. It is there, lurking in Meteo (the weather-forecasting app that Mrs F peeks at). Temperatures in the minuses. We are already wearing several layers when we head to the marché or les magasins on the bikes. Where do we take it when the temperatures start to plummet? There'll be too many layers for easy movement but better that than a chill. Maybe we'll plant some things in the potager when the cold snap passes. We've been snipping at the fruit trees; there's a whole lot more of that to do. We haven't even touched the orchard (the verger) and the pears and apples down there could be really good if we take off some of the height of the trees and let Nature focus on the lower limbs. Far less distance for the goodness to travel. And this year, we'll help the 'June drop' a little, twist and remove the tiny fruits that won't thrive; clear the way for the healthy ones. We're not 100% sure what we're doing. The unskilled jobs are fine. Like log splitting. We inherited a huge pile of over-seasoned wood. The chainsaw whines as it struggles to cut them into manageable logs. I had persuaded myself that our pretty yellow-handled axe wasn't up to the job of splitting - it was mostly for cutting kindling and looking fine on Instagram. But, hold on a moment. Don't diss my axe, Mr F, it is mighty. The splitting toasts the body before the log fire warms the soul on cold nights. Oh, and the nights are about to get a whole lot chillier. We'll be 'Scrabbling' for the best seat by the fire, or reading a good book.
We bought a small farm (two acres and some outbuildings) knowing it had been neglected for a few years. There is plenty we could do and we are slowly investing time and money into breathing new life into soil and buildings. We are keen to have any renovations done sensitively, preserving what we can of the history and staying sympathetic to the local vernacular. We lucked out with the local craftsman we found to help with masonry and roofing.
14 January
We met Stefan by accident. Well, a moment of serendipitous bravery, perhaps. He is a roofer and mason, originally from Slovakia, settled in this area. We watched his work as he patiently, skillfully, pointed a local stone-built building. Assuming he was French, we summoned up the courage to ask him, falteringly, if he could look at our house to assess some jobs. It turns out he is more comfortable with English than French. He has already patched up the render on the main farmhouse; his attention to detail and work ethic is fantastic. But what appeals to us is his preference to preserve as much of the history of a building as he can. So we asked him to give us a quote (a devis) to re-roof the 'Summer Kitchen' (cuisine d'été). Before you could say Juste le travail ("just the job") tiles started to arrive and Stefan was building what looked like a mid-size siege engine. His work has been every bit as meticulous as we hoped. Tiles were removed and graded. Some turned into rubble but those that could be rescued are either set aside for future work (the outdoor bread over, peut-être) or earmarked to return from whence they came. In keeping with our intentions to breathe new life into the building as respectfully as we can, the reroofing is a combination of old and new tiles, with the whole effect being as if it has always been like that. Finding a skilled, dedicated craftsman is a joy.
All work and no play would make us VERY dull indeed!
So, we try to make sure there is a balance.
21 January
Winter can weigh heavily. It can feel claustrophobic, and oppressive. There's a risk that we focus on what we cannot do. That can make the world shrink around us, holding us in, constraining us. After a wet Autumn, the windy, dank, chilled-to-the-bones early weeks of January have slowed everything down at the farm. Stefan gamely mounts his homespun 'scaffolding' to work on the outbuilding roof but some days the biting wind from the North crushes his resilience and work grinds to a halt. That's okay with us ... no deadlines, gently does it. That's the way we operate anyway. A few jobs have been tackled; logs have been cut to keep the home fires burning; the mimosa trees have been protected from the frost, and uncovered again; there's a good chance they'll be wrapped once more. There will be plenty of time to tell you about the chores in the weeks to come, as the days lengthen and we need fewer layers outdoors.
This week, the sunshine returned, glorious golden rays highlighted against the warm glow of our yellow kitchen wall. Bliss. Spirits soared, plans were made. A Gran Fondo (big ride) to soak up the energy of Nature's recharger. It was -5 when we set off ... first stop Gateaux, the cake shop in Tusson (35 kilometres) to warm our frozen toes by the log burner ... on to Aunac-sur-Charente (17 kilometres) - a dip for Mrs F and a pique-nique to fuel the ride home ... hill climbs out of Nanteuil-en-Vallee (when you're in the valley, the only way out is up), forested shadows, frost nipping at our heels, the exhilaration of the ride together warming our souls. Home,100.93 kilometres total. Gran Fondo - done.
Sometimes - often, always - it is what you can do that counts.
28 January
It's been a strange couple of weeks, weather-wise. Bright cold sunshine one day, gloomy mist layering us in unseasonal warmth the next. Cold starts, and clammy nights. What to do? Stay in, head out? Red sky in the morning, cyclists warning ... red sky at night, smallholders' delight. Honestly, we end up taking each day as it comes. The warmer weather ramps up the tension for fruit tree growers - oops, that's us, JoJo ... should we be snipping things before the sap rises? We think so. But there's that new bike to buy. A (let's call it a) 'chat' in the local bike shop (hmm, says Mrs F, your French has suddenly improved now there's a bike as a reward! Noted!). Add a new pannier to the order to distract Mrs F. Collection day arrives. You end up with one bike too many if you cycle to pick up a new bike - cue, Mr F exercising his rarely-seen running legs. A 7.30 am start, misty, spooky, jumping at every shuffling in the copses, expecting a boar to pop out at any moment. A leisurely pedal for Mrs F ("let's meet in the boulangerie for a New Bike Day pastry") and we rendezvous (whatever the French is for that) at the bike shop. Splendid new mount (and shiny pannier for JoJo) metaphorically 'pawing at the ground' for a ride out but poor old Mr F has run his aging hips into submission (13 kilometres is a decent commitment to collecting a new toy!). We pedal home, light the fire, snaffle a jumbo-size cheese toastie, and hide away inside, dreaming of the outside. Happy days.
Just like that, January is done. Spring will be here soon. But for now, let’s curl up by the fire
The greatest fine art of the future will be the making of a comfortable living on a small piece of land
- Abraham Lincoln
I didn't receive this one by email and it's not in my spam...is there some conspiracy against me receiving them, hmmmm
Love this. It is like looking through a window into your life en France. I have developed a croissant habit to keep myself ready for my next visit. See you soon on this side of the channel. 💜