I was out when the Man from Orange reappeared at hubby’s new gate, specially designed to protect the garden from the neighbour’s sheep who roam at will around the area. Hubby couldn’t understand exactly what Man from Orange was saying but inferred from the body language that he was required to switch off the electric fence so the Man from Orange could do some testing or repair work.

We were lucky enough to have met a very kind English couple when we moved to Mas Pallagourdi. As time went by, our new friends proved to be extremely knowledgeable about all manner of things, from where to find a particular kind of gravel to good quality hay to tracking down the best seafood in Spain. In fact, we were so amazed at our friend’s abilities we started to call her The Oracle.

The loss of our beautiful fat cockerel and 24 hens had been a blow, but despite what you might think, not everything in our new life was a complete disaster. The wildlife pond had turned out to be one of hubby’s more successful projects. Although a good number of aquatic plants had died, the fish population had flourished and this part of the garden had become a haven for wildlife — insects, frogs, toads and snakes had all taken up residence. But it wasn’t all plain sailing. Mr Guppy, the plump fish with the beautiful tail, was the first to disappear. And then, one spring, a heron discovered the pond and cleared it of fish overnight.

If you remember, hubby and I had pitched up in Ceret on our bikes as part of a planned journey through France. This hadn’t really gone as hubby had expected as we’d only cycled as far as Perpignan. Looming mountains and an idyllic run-down old mas had got in the way.

Our friend Jo had done the unthinkable. She had organised her own death, which was to take place in Switzerland at the offices of Dignitas. She’d asked Arthur if he wanted in on the ticket. “I can negotiate two for the price of one?” she said, referring to her days as a buyer.

So far, Jo had figured a great deal in our Ceret story. In the early days, when we couldn’t speak the language and hadn’t a clue how things worked, she’d gone to extraordinary lengths to help us and along the way we’d become firm friends. I thought long and hard about including this part of what happened to her in this blog, but came to the conclusion that she would have preferred to have had her story told. I hope that it will be taken in the spirit in which it is written, a homage to a dear friend.

So far, Jo had figured a great deal in our Ceret story. In the early days, when we couldn’t speak the language and hadn’t a clue how things worked, she’d gone to extraordinary lengths to help us and along the way we’d become firm friends. I thought long and hard about including this part of what happened to her in this blog, but came to the conclusion that she would have preferred to have had her story told. I hope that it will be taken in the spirit in which it is written, a homage to a dear friend.

Ever since a helpful neighbour had explained the dire consequences that would follow if we didn’t cut down half of our trees, we’d a good idea of what débroussillage involved. The rules seemed clear. Being in a ‘red’ fire zone we had to cut the undergrowth within a 100 metre radius of the house.