Procrastination, Plumbing and Poultry

The trouble with All the Time in the World is that it can so easily become a seed-bed for procrastination. And when one suddenly finds oneself harboured safe from the stormy shipwreck of a stressful relocation, floating free from imminent deadlines in a blissful cove of calm, there is more than a little temptation to just sit and bask in the Loveliness of It All.

After a biblically-proportioned wrestle with temptation, we beat the Demon of Idleness into temporary submission with the Big Stick of Obligation, and agree that we really ought to get on with doing something. But there are SO MANY somethings to get on with, that the issue of Where to Start soon raises its indecisive head.

Simon is a lover of lists. I most definitely am not, (see Moving Blues ). Luckily, we are unable at this point to find any writing implements or paper (“there must be some in one of these boxes somewhere!”), and besides, after only one day of having to use Nature’s Comfort Station, it seems blatantly obvious to me that the number one (forgive the pun) priority for action has to be the installation of a plumbed-in toilet.

Now the whereabouts (even the existence) of the septic tank remains a mystery to this day. The previous owners, who had only lived here for two years, had bought the house from the son of an old couple who had died, taking with them any knowledge regarding the position of the elusive fosse septique.  According to a local builder who Mike and Sue have talked to about it, there isn’t one. According to the previous owners, there is… and although they don’t know where it is, they assured us that it worked. But since they used a composting toilet, and had none of their water drainage pipes connected to anything, we were dubious. Optimistically, I had always hoped that this was a life-style choice on their part, rather than an indication that there was no functioning drainage system. And the existence of a big hole in the bathroom floor, plugged with a ball of rag, that was just the right size and shape to accommodate a toilet-pan connector, gave me hope.

Simon removed the rag plug and peered into the darkness. There was not a lot to see. Time to test it out with a bucket or two of water. Gingerly, Simon poured water into the ominous hole. “My god,  it must go down a long way”. The water sounded as if it was falling into a deep well. Another bucket-load, this time less gingerly. And another…and another. To our relief the hole did not fill with overflowing water and years-old sewage. It seemed that the water was indeed draining away. But where to? The pipework that we could see just went straight down. Perhaps it just goes down forever, to the centre of the Earth?Perhaps this house is a portal to the Underworld? Perhaps there is just a very big tank right under this room (which was after all a later extension to the original building)? Who cares! For the moment the water is going away, and that is all that matters. Simon can attach the brand new toilet that we brought with us all the way from Carcassonne, and we can once again enjoy the utter luxury of an inside toilet that empties. The cistern can be connected to the mains later (that requires a more sophisticated plumbing job), and for now the toilet can be flushed with buckets of water.

The first few days in our new home continue in a similar vein. Hours are spent with drain rods, and then a new set of longer of drain rods, trying to unblock the pipe that leads from the kitchen sink to who-knows-where. It is a stinky business, but ultimately successful, to a point. Simon reinstates the U-bend and under-sink waste pipe, and we treat ourselves to a nice lot of washing-up, happy in the knowledge that we can simply empty the bowl (very slowly) down the sink, rather than having to carry it, slishy-sloshy-full-and-greasy, out to somewhere in the garden.

While Simon continues with what seem to be endless plumbing tasks (lots of pipes aren’t attached to anything, and the few that are leak), I tackle the monstrous cloud of cobwebs that dangle ominously from the beamed ceilings, and spread down the walls like sticky curtains, to meet those that are growing up from the corners of the floor. I struggle to clear the webs without killing the spiders, recognising the stupidity of this approach even as I steadfastly maintain it. Actually I’m not unhappy with a few cobwebs – they are nature’s mosquito nets after all. But the current density of dead-fly-ridden gunge is too much to bear, even for me.

We intermittently ring Mike and Sue to let them know we haven’t forgotten about them, and are greeted with the news that our chickens have become expert escape artists, and that two of them are currently AWOL  in the ditch next to the road. By the time we have rushed over to offer chicken-catching assistance, they are already safely back in the pen, but we resolve to put our own chicken-pen construction at the top of the List that Cannot be Written.

So the following morning we do a bit of standing and looking and thinking and measuring, and head off to the local agri-shop to buy fence posts and chicken-netting. Our first plans for the pen are foiled when Simon hits solid rock (or concrete) when trying to bang in the first of the fence posts, and the would-be pen gets smaller and smaller, as we search for soft ground. Eventually a reasonable area around the entrance to the existing solid chicken house is secured against hungry intruders, and Simon goes in search of the lone chicken that has survived thus far by perching overnight very high up in the existing house, and flappily fleeing anything or anyone who tries to get remotely close to it.

After being chased back into our yard from the track outside, Lonely Chicken flip-flaps and thrashes her way into the big barn, to perch out-of-reach behind acres of junk on an old hay-rack, clucking inauspiciously.  Mindful that discretion is the better part of valour, Simon decides not to continue with the fruitless chase, but to let time and nature take their course. If this turbulent bird behaves anything like a proper chicken, when sunset arrives, she will be unable to resist the urge to go to bed in her accustomed roosting place. And having witnessed her impressive aerial capabilities, we have little doubt that she could very probably fly over the newly erected chicken-fence (in either direction) if she so desired.

A  few minutes after the sun has set in an orange glow behind the silhouetted black oaks which define the sleepy horizon, we check the chicken house for signs of life. Sure enough, there is Lonely, a bulging blob of motionless grey, safely installed on top of an ancient wooden box fixed precariously high on the back wall. We close the door (which clearly hasn’t been closed for a very long time) and imagine her having the best night’s sleep she has had in ages, safe at last from the threat of marauding foxes and pine martens.

The next morning, we open the chicken-house door and scatter grain on the ground in the new pen. It is some hours before Lonely emerges blinking  from her dark cavern to explore the changes to her environment. Much to our relief, she makes no attempt to traverse her new boundaries, but she still looks ill at ease. She shares a mouldy, ancient lump of french bread with one of the cats, but flees, panic-stricken, to the shelter of the hedge when we try to offer her more tasty morsels. Lonely is not a chicken comfortable with human company.

But now the pen is finished, we can retrieve our other feathered friends from their temporary abode at Mike and Sue’s, and install them and their little-chicken-house-on-the-prairie in their new quarters, to provide Lonely with a bit of species-appropriate company. Another Tick on the Unspoken List, and another Interesting Thing to look forward to, when The Famous Four come face-to-face with Lonely – Resident Hen and Survivor Extraordinaire.