Self-Insufficiency - France - page 137

I placed the ladders in what I thought was their safest position, but even then they were de-
cidedly wobbly - frankly, a mild gust of wind and they'd be over. I walked round the tree a
few times and weighed it all up. If I fell down I would either land on hard ground some 3
metres below or, and this was definitely the worst possibility, I would fall into the tree, not
only breaking a lot of branches but quite possibly becoming impaled on the thing like some
low-rent Aztec Fruit God. Neither option was particularly appealing and it was with some
relief that Natalie reminded me that we had been invited to one of the local farmer's places
for a pre-lunch aperitif and to sample some of their homemade pousse d'épine.
Like all good homemade hooch, pousse d'épine lulls you into a false sense of security mak-
ing you think that really it isn't that strong actually and yes, I'd love another. Well it is that
strong and I did have another, and a few more too. We returned home about an hour or so
later and I was literally fortified by the stuff and determined to tackle the cherry tree. It was
not one of my finest ideas.
Now fully briefed with our plans and at last showing some appetite for the job, the builders
had begun work in earnest. They couldn't, however, avoid regarding me with some suspicion.
They weren't particularly keen on the way I dress for starters, and I'm pretty sure they were
bemused by the fact that it was Natalie mowing the lawns, moving benches, sawing wood,
etc. while I flitted about wearing my kitchen apron and sweeping the terrace. But they were
friendly enough, when eventually they turned up, and I admired the way that they would
bring their own barbeque for lunch and ask us to keep their meat refrigerated and their wine
chilled. They were enjoying their lunch when we returned.
'Bon appétit!' I cried, brimming with confidence as I made my way unsteadily back to my
ladders. 'Il fait beau, eh?' They all nodded slowly, noticing not only that I was a little more
garrulous than usual, but also that I was about to stand on top of wobbly old ladders while
under the influence of moonshine and try and pick fruit. They turned their deckchairs to face
the orchard and sat down slowly.
I think for the first ten minutes or so I handled things pretty well. I concentrated hard and,
much to the disappointment of the gnarled onlookers harvested a fair few cherries without it
ever looking like disaster might strike. Yet… I hadn't reckoned on Junior. That he is a frac-
tious, nasty piece of work is a given but he is also possessed of whatever the equine equi-
valent is of Machiavellian cunning. So while I was concentrating hard on my harvesting and
trying not to look a complete berk in front of the locals, I hadn't noticed that Junior had be-
come agitated and was building up a head of steam charging about in his paddock. There
was just one bunch of cherries I had to get and as I reached out for them, Junior hurtled past
and kicked out his back legs as he did so. Whether it was the ground that shook under his
movement or I just lost concentration I can't say (though I do know he was trying deliberately
to knock me down) - anyway, I fell, not into the tree thankfully but heavily to the ground,
squashing most of my harvest.