The hermit and her hand cream: Lockdown life Part 2

So here we are...three weeks in, three weeks to go. Or an indefinite number of weeks, for the Government is keeping its cards close to its chest, and is terrified of breathing a word to the nation about the possibility of unlocking us for fear of people rushing out of their houses prematurely, lying on park benches in droves, jogging six abreast (accompanied by lots of panting and spitting), and having barbecues for 15 behind (rather symbolically) a row of lock up garages. In short, it doesn't trust the majority of people who have so assiduously complied with social distancing all this while.

Be that as it may, two weeks on from my last post, things feel quite a lot different, mainly in terms of the degree of resigned acceptance I feel about the situation. I guess people in actual prison must go through a very similar thought process - or the bereaved, indeed. Whereas before, my main objection to the restrictions was the isolation from friends, I have since become something of a born again hermit, and the thought of a zoom party featuring headshots of a dozen people (or however many you can fit onto a screen) would feel like a surreal surfeit of stimulation. I am okay with phone calls, but I would find the sight of even someone's head and shoulders strangely overwhelming at this point, and that's not even because of the dire 'wild woman' state of my own hair, hehe. No, I sense I have shifted down several gears, such that occasionally bumping into people - or even more occasionally arranging to drop off food with someone I gaily construe as 'elderly' if they are more or less my age(!), and potentially also 'vulnerable' once they have eaten my cooking ;) - is proving a busy enough form of social life. I am frankly amazed I have got to this point, and perhaps the tide will turn, and I will crave tangible company again.

Police poster on the ground - now technically litter!

Now I don't know about you, but in the absence of face-to-face contact I have been receiving a disproportionate number of emails, messages and texts compared to normal times, many from more distant family and friends, whom the current crisis has galvanised into action. On any given day I owe about ten replies by various media, and this surge in communications is causing an unexpected feeling of pressure I didn't foresee, even though I know this 'reaching out'(!) is well-intentioned, and I am grateful for people's concern. Moreover, each person who writes to me is of course unaware that I am receiving a number of similar inquiries. The fact of the matter is that I only tend to call my elderly friend, which backs up my hunch that I may be getting used to the solitary life.

Coincidentally, there is a beautiful creeper-clad hermitage in Tollymore Forest, Co Down, where my brother and I spent many happy childhood holidays (our parents had a caravan just outside the park). Years ago I decided that I wanted my ashes to be scattered in the Shimna River right below the hermitage. My brother has opted for a spot upstream of me with an architecturally interesting bridge and the added benefit of being a more discreet location for this surreptitious act to be carried out - with it being a national park, I mean. So there's further oblique confirmation of my hermit credentials.

Source: geograph.ie

Yes, the social isolation is bothering me less than it was, but meanwhile I can't wait to see my dentist, osteopath and hairdresser again - about my holey molar, sprained foot and pelvis, and mad mane of hair respectively! I am also quietly hopeful that an enterprising tree surgeon will swing by tomorrow to empty my bin of green waste, so that I can get on with gardening.

Though the loneliness may have receded, I remain moderately worried about catching the virus, especially after seeing a programme on survivors. One familiar face featured was Linda Lusardi, who got the illness quite badly and ended up in hospital with complications. When she sought reassurance from a nurse that she would make it, he was rather equivocal and said: "Hmm..well, it's hard to say - you are 61 after all, and this thing is brand new." (I am paraphrasing.) Having seen recent photos of the former Page 3 model, I must say she is looking tremendous for her age, which may have helped her recovery. However, the fact that someone so vital and relatively young in my terms could fall so ill does give you pause.

Are you by any chance doing that thing where if you wake up in the morning and feel a bit hot you start asking yourself if the feeling of heat is the sun streaming through the window, that hot bath you had last night, too much bedding, overly cosy pyjamas, a physical manifestation of anxiety...or could it possibly be The Fever?!! If anyone out there has already had the virus and would like to share their experience, please do let us know, also any tips for managing the symptoms.

The other thing that I'd be interested to know about the lockdown is whether you have found yourself doing new things, sometimes without any conscious decision to do so. Here's a round up of the ones I have noticed recently:

- Drinking hot water and lemon first thing (I have it in my head that this is good for detoxing the liver from all those Cadbury's Mini-Eggs)

- Sleeping longer and deeper (this is completely abnormal!)

- A three hour bike ride, not by design. Good - and God - deed for the day was alerting the vicar of Sandon church to the fact that his security alarm was going off. "There probably isn't a burglar inside", I said to allay his fears of a break in. "My money's on a bat." Hmm, maybe that wasn't the best way to reassure him.

- Ongoing unprecedented levels of cooking. Ex-Mr Bonkers has just come to the door and collected a tupperware of vegetable curry I set aside for him on the step. He took one look at my hair - he hasn't seen me for a month or two - and said: "Just accept you are going grey!" Ha!

- Using the downstairs shower (to mix up my ablution routine - gotta get your kicks where you can!)

- Applying hand cream (a lifetime first, which is doubtless related to the copious amounts of hand washing we are all engaged in)

The hand cream in question was given to me ages ago by fellow blogger Sabine, which goes to show how long-kept items can suddenly come into their own. Its realistic mimosa scent - cheery and uplifting in that distinctive sherbety way - reminded me of my first misguided purchase of niche perfume over ten years ago in Paris...L'Ete en Douce from L'Artisan Parfumeur, which Luca Turin so aptly described as "laundry musk on steroids" (I'm paraphrasing here too). The sad fact is that I was hesitating on that occasion between L'Ete en Douce and Mimosa pour Moi, and bitterly regret not opting for the latter. I think I did eventually manage to swap the musky miscreant for something I only wanted marginally more(!), but the memory of Mimosa pour Moi still haunts me...And for now, this Swedish hand cream is a fair substitute.

Ah dear, it seems to be discontinued, judging by the company's website.

Source: perfumemaster.net

PS I have been wearing perfume every now and then when I am in the mood and remember: Serge Lutens Un Lys, Guerlain Lys Soleia, Kenzo Eau de Fleur de Magnolia, original Vera Wang (worn ironically, obvs) and something I fished out from my sample box which just says 'Guerlain' on the vial, but which may in fact be Encens Mythique.

COVID-19 in Corrèze (19): the cowslip trip, and my flight out of lockdown on 19.03

I have just been to France. I got home again a week later, but I very nearly didn't. This is the story of that ill-fated trip.

NB I have other more fragrant topics in mind to write about, but nothing is as top of head to me as the Coronavirus pandemic, having experienced it in a country - and in an area with a postcode beginning with 19, no less - that is much further down the road in terms of numbers of cases, and where government containment measures ratcheted up at a dizzying speed in the short time I was there.

Yes, I see now that it was madness to go...Ex-Mr Bonkers rang me every day for four or five days before I went, begging me not to, telling me it was all going to go to hell in a handcart very fast all over Europe, and that I would be stuck in France with no means of getting back. As a concession to him, on the morning of my departure I rang my travel insurer (who were still contactable back then...!), and asked if I could invoke my insurance policy if I cancelled my trip voluntarily, because I was worried about what might develop while I was over in France. They said unfortunately not; the policy only applies when things start to go wrong. So rather than lose my sunk costs on flight / hire car / airport parking, I set off on Thursday 12th for East Midlands Airport.

Then before handing over my hold luggage at the check in desk, I quizzed the Ryanair ground staff about the likelihood of my return flight still sticking to the wall by the time I was due to come home in ten days. They said nothing was set in stone, but that they as a company wanted to continue to fly for as long as possible, unless government intervention on either the French or British side stopped them - or their crew got sick. Commercial reasons were less likely to apply to them ie too few passengers showing up for flights to make them viable, as they had already taken people's money whether they travelled or not (Ryanair not being an airline to issue refunds on unused tickets).

So I sensed a will to fly back on the part of Ryanair, and that was as much as I could glean without committing to the air...which I duly did.

It was similar weather to Britain when I arrived - lashing rain and cold - and I spent a good forty minutes trying to open my front door, which had swollen in the long winter months, the wettest on record. Having finally wrenched it open, I then had problems shutting it(!), and ended up barricading the door with furniture as a temporary measure to deter burglars, not that they are thick on the ground in the village. I also messaged my go-to handyman, asking him if he could take a look at it at some point during my stay: star that he is, he arrived in 20 minutes(!), at 10pm, and promptly hammered it shut with his (very strong) fist, before promising to return on Saturday and do a proper repair. (We didn't shake hands.) Meanwhile, I could still come and go via the very old stable door to the side, which was also tricky to use as the key wouldn't come out of the lock, but I finally mastered the knack.

Friday and Saturday were almost normal, dare I say it? The library in the village was shut until further notice, along with my favourite charity shop, but I was able to pop into the local brocante, and the Post Office and boulanger were also open. In the nearby town, everything seemed pretty busy, so I got some more keys cut, bought a walking map, did a big supermarket shop, stocked up on logs and a vac-u-vin. Bars and restaurants were doing a lively trade, but I noticed that people there were doing the social distancing thing with varying degrees of compliance, unlike in the village. I saw two men and a woman greet each other with the traditional French hand shaking and kissing on the cheeks, and overheard one of them say: "I don't give a f***", as he did so. This kind of defiant behaviour turned out to be the death knell of life in France as they knew it just a couple of days later...

By now the weather was absolutely beautiful, with temperatures ranging from 16 - 22C, in strange contrast to the air of cosmic bleakness that hung heavy over the village and France more widely. The cases were creeping up in certain hotspots, and the health services struggling. On Sunday I weeded the perimeter of my house and went for a long walk using my new map.

At some point over the weekend - I can't quite recall when! - ALL shops and hotels, restaurants and bars were closed, leaving only supermarkets, pharmacies, petrol stations and banks operating as normal. Small independent food shops, like the boulanger, were initially shut down, but later allowed to open again, meaning I was allowed to sample their apple doughnut during my stay after all - a small win.

On Monday in the day I went in search of kindling, as an open fire was the best way to stay warm in the chilly evenings. I had to visit three big supermarkets quite some way away before I struck lucky, and was shocked at how close people were to one another in the checkout queues, though I tried to step out of line and back in again when it was my turn. There was a lot of panic buying and the "Less than 10 items" till at which I was queuing had been hijacked by those with trolleys piled high.

Then on Monday night, President Macron addressed the nation for the second time that week and expressed his annoyance at his fellow citizens' flagrant disregard of social distancing. From noon on Tuesday, everyone was grounded or "confined" for the next two weeks, and could only leave their homes for one of a handful of reasons, and then only with a self-completed form stating the reason in question, called an "attestation de déplacement dérogatoire".

On Tuesday, half an hour after the new law came into force, I sallied forth to the newly reopened boulanger on a mission to score my much anticipated doughnut. It was a very short distance from my house, and I didn't bother filling in an attestation for a round trip of five minutes. (But I did take care to do so for every foray from that point on.) In the baker's there was a big sign saying "Card payments only". Imagine, paying by card for a bun...I offered to pop back to my house to retrieve my bank card, but they said if I could pay that way next time that would be fine. So I lobbed a two euro coin from a safe distance onto the counter and we chatted for a while about where on earth this was all going to end up.

On Tuesday afternoon, I went for another long walk, but this time I took an attestation with me, though forgot any ID, which you are meant to have on you as well. Going for a walk was a legitimate reason to leave the house, but I may have pushed the km envelope - now set at 1-2km I believe, though previously a bit fluid, depending on how good a walker you are(!). I didn't meet a policeman, though an extra 100,000 had been deployed for the specific purpose of checking up on people's movements.

On the walk I picked some cowslips and put them in a jug when I got back.

On Wednesday I went for another walk, and picked some more cowslips, which I added to the jug. I did the additional flower picking on autopilot though, for while I was out in the countryside I received a message from a neighbour who is on the local council, reminding me that I was also grounded, that the borders were closed, and that I had to stay in the village for the full 15 days, or however long a period of confinement it turned out to be.

This news sent me into a complete tailspin, for I was not at all geared for a long stay in my house, and I sensed that the confinement period would turn out to be a lot longer than 15 days in the end. My shower had just broken, I had developed a large hole in my tooth (crusty bread being the likely culprit), and had a cat back home whom I could not expect friends to indefinitely feed. Plus, at 85, my Elderly Friend (as she is known on Facebook) is in the vulnerable category, and I needed to get back to do my bit to support her. At a time of national crisis like this, the only place you want to be is home. Your main home, in your own country. This is no time to be 'on holiday'.

So I spent several hours that night researching the rights of British citizens to jump 'confinement' and go home. I messaged a dear perfume friend, whose French husband rang me up late at night to assure me that "going back home" was a valid reason for travel, as long as I wrote it on the attestation form, as I had been doing for my walks.

Then very early the following morning I received a travel advisory email from the FCO, telling me to leg it basically, if I wanted to get back to the UK - for while the borders were still open, the transport options were closing down fast. I needed no telling, believe me, notwithstanding the town hall's wish to keep me there. Ryanair had already indicated that they were suspending flights from the following week, so if I didn't make a break for freedom sharpish, I knew I might be trapped in France for weeks or months to come. At 10am I discovered that the first of the three return flights to the UK I had bought! ;) (to cover all bases), had been miraculously reinstated, though it had been cancelled shortly after I booked it. So I promptly checked in online and set about packing up for an immediate departure.

Thus it was that at noon on Thursday 19th I did a 'daylight flit' to the airport. I also took along with me two kinds of rubbish. Ordinarily I would give these to my neighbours, but no one wants things you have touched anymore, so I took the bags with me. The household waste I put into the large dumper bin of a closed restaurant, while I tipped my green waste (the weeds from round my house, plus the cowslips ;( ) into a thicket in a forest, where I figured they would compost down nicely.

Departure lounge as I have never seen it before!

I drove on to the airport...the roads were eerily empty - quieter than Christmas Day - and in the large town of Limoges all but one of a dozen traffic lights turned green as soon as they saw me approach, which was also spooky. "Oooh look, a car, let's turn colour!" I made it to the airport with four hours to spare before take off, but I was just so glad to be there. In the concourse there were two roving (and masked) reporters from national TV channel France 3, who, having overheard me speak French to the check in staff, asked if they could film and ask me a few questions. They basically wanted to know why I was going back to Britain: was it because I was afraid of staying on in France? I explained that I had caring responsibilities for an elderly relative and that I wasn't afraid of the virus in France as such. I just needed to be back home, surrounded by my network of friends so that we could provide mutual support to one another. I also mentioned my responsabilities to Truffle. I didn't mention the broken shower, but now that confinement was in force - also for my handyman - that was not going to get fixed any time soon...

On time, a few hours later, the flight took off. There was no problem doing social distancing on board, as there were only 15 of us on the plane! I could have hugged the Northern Irish captain and all the crew for getting us out in the nick of the time, but obviously hugging is not the done thing now. The plane landed just before 6pm, and I was home - and incredulous to be so - by 7pm.

A 60 hour throwing up migraine promptly ensued, from which I emerged this morning...

Now I am back, I am behaving like a French person and carrying on my confinement: I am only going out for essential reasons, wearing gloves, washing my hands all the time, and not letting anyone into my house. I am even wary of mail. This illness is truly horrific if you get it badly - which is happening to people of all ages for reasons no one can fathom - so the more we all knuckle down and self-isolate, the more the NHS will be able to cope with the many casualties yet to come.


PS In case anyone is wondering I did wear perfume most, but not all of the time, because when I am truly stressed, not even perfume has the capacity to calm. But I do recall Estee Lauder Bronze Goddess on the way out from the tester in the Duty Free, Chanel Bois des Iles, Aqua di Parma Magnolia Nobile, Flower by Kenzo Oriental, L'Erbolario Meharees, and Hermes Vanille Galante.

Right now, however, I would happily sell some of my collection in return for toilet paper, having missed the panic buying peak in the UK while I was away!