servants were friendly and helpful. Sophia started singing in French, proving our worries about her settling in unfounded. I agonised about our precarious financial future but the success of the Christmas offer filled me with hope. Ellie started crawling and putting her tiny hands into my paint and other undesirable substances. Meanwhile Sean's thoughts turned in earnest to the vineyard: a place bristling with unknown danger.
Chapter 4
Six Tons of Chicken Poo and No 'Ãpandeur'
Sean commissioned a soil analysis so we could gauge the state of the vineyard. The soil consultant took us through the diagnostic, explaining that, in his opinion, the vineyard needed a serious fertility boost.
  'By my calculations you need six tons of fertiliser. It must be ordered and spread as soon as possible,' he declared.
  I asked how long it would take to spread that amount of fertiliser.
  'For Sean, since he's new to it, about three days but rain is forecast in three days so you must do it now.'
  Since the fertiliser was not ordered, this seemed optimistic.
  Sean shelved his other plans for the day and went out to investigate the machinery in the hangar. The 'hangar' was a rusted corrugated iron lean-to around the side of the pressoir where old agricultural equipment that we had acquired with the farm was stored. He found a fertiliser spreader and connected it to the tractor only to discover it was broken. In the intervening hour I got an express order of organic fertiliser delivered. Now we were the proud owners of 6 tons of compressed chicken manure with no way to spread it.
  Sean postulated that we could spread the poo using our back packs with some minor adjustments. It involved piercing holes into the bottom of the packs and running tubes from the holes, then filling the packs with extremely noxious material and walking up and down each side of each vineyard row aiming the issue from the tubes at the base of the vines. I carefully explained with the aid of calculations related to the weight, distance and smell why we should reject this notion out of hand. I was beginning to doubt whether my husband's sense of practicality was a match for farming. We moved on to the next option, to repair the spreader, and decided it would take too long and probably be more costly than buying another one.
  'Phone around to find out prices for a new one then,' said Sean.
  'What is it called and where would I get one?' I replied, reaching for the phone.
  'I don't know. You'll have to phone Jamie.'
  A few minutes later, thanks to our lifesaver Jamie, I had what I thought was the name â an 'epondre anglais' . I didn't know exactly what it meant â pondre is to lay eggs, I knew that, which seemed a little strange â but I had the numbers for three places that supplied them. I called the list ending off with Monsieur Bonny, who was rapidly becoming our local mechanical genius.
  Monsieur Bonny had one of the happiest, friendliest faces I had ever encountered. He was a small fellow with boundless energy. In his late fifties, although he didn't look it, he had been working as a mechanic in his family workshop in Coutures since he was thirteen years old. He had a wonderful, strong Dordogne accent. Maintenant , justement and other similar words ending in 'ent' or 'ant' become 'ain' and take on the most beautiful sing-song ring when he says them. Besoin , the word for need, also ends more softly, sounding more like 'beswain' . We made his acquaintance soon after moving in and had been regular visitors to his workshop ever since.
  Monsieur Bonny explained that it was an épandeur d'engrais , a fertiliser spreader, and nothing to do with English or laying eggs. Several machinery sales people in the Dordogne were having a good laugh on me. Monsieur Bonny had a second hand one that would be perfect for us. A few hours later Sean was spreading chicken manure
Chapter 4
Six Tons of Chicken Poo and No 'Ãpandeur'
Sean commissioned a soil analysis so we could gauge the state of the vineyard. The soil consultant took us through the diagnostic, explaining that, in his opinion, the vineyard needed a serious fertility boost.
  'By my calculations you need six tons of fertiliser. It must be ordered and spread as soon as possible,' he declared.
  I asked how long it would take to spread that amount of fertiliser.
  'For Sean, since he's new to it, about three days but rain is forecast in three days so you must do it now.'
  Since the fertiliser was not ordered, this seemed optimistic.
  Sean shelved his other plans for the day and went out to investigate the machinery in the hangar. The 'hangar' was a rusted corrugated iron lean-to around the side of the pressoir where old agricultural equipment that we had acquired with the farm was stored. He found a fertiliser spreader and connected it to the tractor only to discover it was broken. In the intervening hour I got an express order of organic fertiliser delivered. Now we were the proud owners of 6 tons of compressed chicken manure with no way to spread it.
  Sean postulated that we could spread the poo using our back packs with some minor adjustments. It involved piercing holes into the bottom of the packs and running tubes from the holes, then filling the packs with extremely noxious material and walking up and down each side of each vineyard row aiming the issue from the tubes at the base of the vines. I carefully explained with the aid of calculations related to the weight, distance and smell why we should reject this notion out of hand. I was beginning to doubt whether my husband's sense of practicality was a match for farming. We moved on to the next option, to repair the spreader, and decided it would take too long and probably be more costly than buying another one.
  'Phone around to find out prices for a new one then,' said Sean.
  'What is it called and where would I get one?' I replied, reaching for the phone.
  'I don't know. You'll have to phone Jamie.'
  A few minutes later, thanks to our lifesaver Jamie, I had what I thought was the name â an 'epondre anglais' . I didn't know exactly what it meant â pondre is to lay eggs, I knew that, which seemed a little strange â but I had the numbers for three places that supplied them. I called the list ending off with Monsieur Bonny, who was rapidly becoming our local mechanical genius.
  Monsieur Bonny had one of the happiest, friendliest faces I had ever encountered. He was a small fellow with boundless energy. In his late fifties, although he didn't look it, he had been working as a mechanic in his family workshop in Coutures since he was thirteen years old. He had a wonderful, strong Dordogne accent. Maintenant , justement and other similar words ending in 'ent' or 'ant' become 'ain' and take on the most beautiful sing-song ring when he says them. Besoin , the word for need, also ends more softly, sounding more like 'beswain' . We made his acquaintance soon after moving in and had been regular visitors to his workshop ever since.
  Monsieur Bonny explained that it was an épandeur d'engrais , a fertiliser spreader, and nothing to do with English or laying eggs. Several machinery sales people in the Dordogne were having a good laugh on me. Monsieur Bonny had a second hand one that would be perfect for us. A few hours later Sean was spreading chicken manure
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