If there is one thing that I have learnt about being married to a farmer, it’s that they are never, ever happy about the weather. Rain, shine or snow, it will always be doing the wrong thing at the wrong time of year.

Despite my difficulties in understanding this, I do know that spring is a particularly dangerous time for the orchard, especially when the flowers are starting to bloom. Too much rain and the bees can’t pollinate them, which means a smaller crop of apples. Dry weather however, will often harbour a cold spell when temperatures can drop below freezing. If this happens, the flowers are damaged and tend to fall off or turn into deformed apples. It is the apple growers’ nightmare.

When a particularly heavy frost threatens, my husband sets the alarm on the thermometer and goes to bed to wait for the cold to arrive, as it inevitably does just before day break. Once the temperature reaches zero there is a collective dash to all the orchards in the farming community to turn on the irrigation system and “water” the trees.

It is an imprecise science, but theory has it that when the water freezes around the flower, it insulates it and protects it from further drops in temperature.

When the sun comes up, the orchard is transformed into a glittering kingdom and I once remarked to my husband how beautiful it looked. But seeing his entire crop and year’s work enshrouded in a several tons of ice inspired a comment that made me think that he doesn’t quite share my idea of beauty. Or what good weather should be.

Ok, don’t look at me like that.

I apologise for abandoning you. I can’t remember when that was exactly, but I think it was sometime between lambing and the start of our direct selling venture. It must have been after we finished pruning our 1,000 odd apple trees, but before the hail netting in the orchard went up.

My memory must be going. I know that that the last post I wrote was before sales of lamb at the farm went up by 35% on last year, leaving me with 35% less time to blog. But I can’t remember if that was before or after my part-time job, or the time that time had suddenly run out and the children had’t done their homework and it was time to make dinner (again).

I guess you get the picture. Even if my website is right up there at the top of my list of “important things to do before I go to bed”, I still haven’t found the knack of turning it into a priority and putting it before hungry kids and a French husband.

A big thank you to those who left comments or emailed to check that I hadn’t gone missing in action in the sheep barn. I was very surprised and touched and it is one of the reasons that I’m back where I left off. The other being that blogging is a hard habit to kick and despite my best efforts to cut down, I’ve found that one quick drag has just brought me right back to where I started - a crafty half-hour in front of the screen deeply inhaling blogs.

I look forward to catching up with you all.

Yes, our blue skies are back again. I know I’m rubbing it in, but being English means that I have been endowed with a lifelong fascination with the weather. I just can’t stop talking about it. Think of it as an inherent need that us Brits have, to prove to the rest of the planet that we too have the right to some sunshine. And as I happen to live in a corner of the Alps which possesses its own micro-climate, I get to boast about near perfect weather conditions all year round. Sorry.

Even though spring is some way off and most of the vegetation is still a murky brown, I couldn’t resist this shot of the farm yesterday. I know that I am lucky enough to reside in a place that most people would only think about when choosing a holiday destination, but contrary to what you might think, life’s not always a ball here. Living in an isolated, mountainous community does have its difficulties and peculiarities.

Of course, having said that, a decent view en route to the local supermarket does go a long way in taking some of the grind out of grocery shopping.

Even though they live in a sheep barn that’s big enough to play rugby in, the lambs always seem to snooze piled on top of one another. At night they will seek out their mothers for company, but during the day they have slumber parties where the sole aim is to cram in as many kilos of lamb per square metre, without suffocating those on the lower levels.

I suppose the human equivalent would be to squeeze as many people as possible into a phone box and then have them take a short nap. Not my idea of fun, but somebody, somewhere has probably already tried it.

And when the lambs aren’t dozing, they’re climbing and any ewe is fair game for this particular sport. Ewes that are lying down make for an easy target. Standing sheep imply a slightly more athletic approach by the lamb, including a run-up and inelegant sprawl on their back, followed by a desperate scramble for a foothold in the wool and the inevitable slide back down to the straw.

P.S. After hearing your howls of injustice about how I bask in 300 days of sunshine a year, I just wanted to reassure you that today we had the same weather conditions as most other people in the northern hemisphere. I took this photo a while back, but today was identical. Even the rainbow made an appearance.

So I shall leave you happy in the knowledge and smug satisfaction that it is raining here too. In fact, at the moment it’s pouring.

Hope that makes you feel better

There’s no place like home. Even if I was born in a place that is as flat as Illinois and with a similar climate (well at least as far as the rain is concerned), there is no beating the 300 days of sunshine of my adoptive home in the Alps.

We don’t have any tornado warnings here, or winter storms or even much snow considering the altitude that we live at and I suppose that climatically speaking, weather conditions are a little dull compared to the meteorological excitement in St. Louis.

But nothing can match the near certainty that most days the sun will rise and set in a perfect azure sky.

.

And if France had its own Sunshine State, then I’m pretty sure it would be here.

From this…..

to…

well, if I hadn’t forgotten my camera leads you would probably be looking at a photo of beautiful rural Illinois by now, or on second thoughts, maybe just a picture of Walmart.

After much discussion, my husband and I have decided to go global with the sale of our lambs and of course, we can’t hope to conquer the world market without first convincing the American public and their stomachs that our Alpine lamb is amongst the best on earth. I am not far from St. Louis and have an appointment arranged with the managing director at the local Walmart to discuss sales.

No, I’m sorry if you believed that. In fact I’m here to visit my sister, it must be the jet-lag and 22 hour journey that is making my mind wander. I do have an appointment with Walmart though. In the Alps our biggest local supermarket would probably fit into the pet food section of the building that I can see across the field from here. I think it is time to do a 9 ’till 5 stint there and see if consumerism is all it’s cracked up to be.

And while I’m at it, I might also have a look at the lamb. Just to see what we’re up against.

Elections are looming and I’m not talking about the ones in the U.S., although given the stories floating out of the rumour mill that is our village, I could well be.

The current mayor who has presided over the village for the last 25 years is standing down. He has faced precious little opposition in the last two decades, so the sudden interest in his job and the fight for it is as unexpected as it is animated. It seems that the villagers are queuing up to become local councillors and mayor in a battle so fierce it makes the American candidates look like children squabbling over a sweet in the playground.

As we live a couple of miles from the village, news about the forthcoming elections is murky at best. Information filters down through a multi-tiered system of ‘apparently..’ and ‘I heard that..’ and ‘she said that…’ We have now found the solution for receiving slightly more precise campaign reports in the dubious form of my brother-in-law, who lives in the village itself. We invite him over every evening, ply him with whisky and prise the days’ events out of him.

And what stories he brings! It seems that the campaigns are hotting up and the fight for votes is on. Or not, as the case may be, given that the candidates don’t need a political leaning, an opinion about policy, or an opinion about anything for that matter. No, it doesn’t work like that here. In our village, when the time comes, you vote for who you know, who you like and who you’re related too. And probably a host of other reasons too - I’ll let you fill in the gaps.

On Election Day, in that little curtained cubicle, word is out that ink will flow like pastis on a Saturday night, as the good citizens of Le Village cross out the vast majority of names on their list. Or maybe that piece of gossip is just part of a misinformation campaign. It’s 7pm and my brother-in-law should be here soon – I’ll ask him and let you know.

After reading your comments on my last post about sexy shepherds and pinup boys, I thought it was time to introduce you to the rest of the talent on the farm.

Meet Flossy, our Pyrenean sheepdog extraordinaire. I had considered offering a free trip to the Alps to anyone showing physical proof that they could beat her at this:

But on second thoughts, I know that there are probably a lot of agile folks out there who would be only too happy to give me a demonstration of how they wash their eyeballs every morning before breakfast.

For those of you who don’t know her, Flossy doubles up as a guard dog and chief keeper of la bergerie.  When she’s not protecting our front door, she plays an important role in the sheep barn, where she helps the shepherd and where they both work extremely hard, without a moment’s respite, all hours of the day.

Or so I’m told.

Our new flyers advertising the sale of lamb at the farm have succeeded beyond my wildest dreams. They have not only managed to seduce many potential customers but also cause them to salivate and dribble over the back cover for a long period of time. 

Unfortunately, this has yet to lead to an order, because instead of hearing magical words such as “I’d like half a lamb please” I can just make out something to the effect of “tanned…muscles….sexy” through the slobber. The flyer is then shoved guiltily into a handbag, with a look that tells me it will probably be stuck to the fridge later. Back to front.

When I put this photo on the back of the flyers, I thought it would be a nice personal touch – a friendly face amongst the sheep and chops as it were. It’s one of my favourites, taken during a morning stroll up to pastures behind the farm. Even if I did get electrocuted.

When I was choosing the photos, I suppose I never really gave any thought to the fact that my husband didn’t fall into the “typical Alpine farmer” category. He doesn’t have an imposing moustache, possess a flat cap, or wear trousers pulled up to his armpits. Oh I know that I have always found him très beau, but I never imagined that half the housewives in the Alps would as well.

I am now faced with the dilemma that once the advertising campaign is finished, the paper version of my husband will find its way into the hands of almost a thousand women. All things considered, maybe I should send out just half the flyers this year.

And by “half” I mean the front page only.

I know, another week gone by and no time for virtual niceties such as blogging. You can take your pick from my list of excuses - too much work, skiing, partying or cooking pancakes. But there is another reason for it.

After having spent the last six weeks showing you how cute the lambs are, I am going to have to try a quick reversal. It’s going to be an uphill struggle I know - you’ve told me often enough how sweet the they are.  But a couple of months down the line and the cuddly, fluffy creatures in the photos will have completely transformed. They will look and act like mini-sheep. Trust me they will!

You know why I’m telling you this don’t you? You must have a good idea of what I’m trying to prepare you for. Because the only thing separating “cute” from “cutlet” is an “l” and a “t” and whether we like it or not, breeding and selling lambs is what the farm does.

Agriculture being what it is, we finally accepted last year that we needed to adapt or go bankrupt. We opted for the first option and put into place la vente directe or direct selling from the farm. This has become the key to our survival.

Our first trial run went well and although there are still a couple of months to go before the lambs are ready this year, I’ve spent the week having flyers designed and sending them out.

This is a big project and challenge for us. So, harden your hearts (as I’ve had to) and let battle commence.