Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
I lay there for a few moments, dazed, but alert enough to see the builders unhurriedly get out
of their chairs and shake their heads mournfully. To them it must have looked like a crushing
defeat but I'd stripped the tree bare of cherries and though they were now largely unusable, at
least no other bugger could have them.
I wasn't the only one having crop issues though, everybody was. There was a drought in
the Loire Valley, a serious drought, and the farmers were not only obeying laws, they were
wandering mournfully around their arid fields, pursing their lips and letting handfuls of soil
sift through their fingers in time-honoured 'Look, it's a drought' fashion. There's not an awful
lot of sympathy for French farmers, they have become a potent symbol of everything people
believe is wrong with the European Union. Fair enough. What shouldn't be forgotten though
is that where the UK goes wrong in 'Europe' is that we moan about certain laws and direct-
ives, but do as we are told anyway. The French, and their farmers in particular, take a more
pragmatic approach: they do what the bloody hell they want and Europe can go hang.
The river Cher, no more than 200 metres from our house and therefore right next to farmland
was dangerously low for the time of year and the industrial-sized irrigation system, as well
as the more prosaic hosepipe use, had been outlawed in the area. The farmers, knowing there
was little point in disobeying this order, were powerless and were just standing by watch-
ing their infant crops withering. All of which had a knockon effect for us. For one, we had
got used to having the massive sprinkler systems shooting over the hedge and watering the
garden and allotment; Natalie had even started parking the car strategically to get a free car-
wash. Hay was the main problem for us. There is perennially already a massive shortage of
hay in Western Europe (what do you mean you didn't know?) thanks to previous springs be-
ing too wet, and now with this spring being too dry the shortage was to get even worse. Ap-
parently, the horses had been eating straw for the last month. I'm not entirely sure that I know
the difference between hay and straw but apparently it's akin to the difference between an
own-brand shepherd's pie and a super-deluxe alternative. Needless to say, it had passed me
by.
'But haven't you noticed that Junior has been moodier recently?' Natalie asked earnestly.
'No,' I replied, and honestly, as far as I can tell the straw diet hasn't hampered his capacity
for violent equine love-making so it can't be that bad. 'He's always like that.'
On the plus side, I managed to get the swimming pool filled before the water ban came in,
though that is something of a mixed blessing. The pool, for somebody with OCD, requires
constant attention. What temperature is it? Is the water at the right level? Do I need to clean
the filter? Add chemicals? What pH is it? But by far the most time-consuming element is the
bugs: the flies, the bees, the ladybirds, hornets, mayflies, anything that lands on the surface
and hasn't the wit to get off again and therefore blemishes what should be clear water. I know
it's a level of madness that I seem to have created for myself, but I don't even go in the pool
these days, I just stand at the side with the pool skimmer net fishing bugs off the surface, like
