At the end of a near-infinite list of inanimate things that have broken down in tears since I arrived back at the Southern Slogger’s Roost is my oven. This is especially bad news, because during the winter here almost everything I eat is slow-cooked dans le four. But there is now just the one temperature level in said oven, Surface of Sun.

Builders will be arriving in late February to knock seven bells out of the Domain du Slog, so I’m hoping to live safely with my own personal Fukushima in the meantime – but it may be, as old Wellington said, a demmed close-run thing.

The heat blasted out by my truculent oven is a thing to behold: it warms the kitchen up a treat, but makes it impossible to adjust the top gas controls without suffering third degree burns. Meltdown is a real possibility, and I am measuring the rad cpms on an hourly basis. You will be kept informed. Virtual notices will be posted at the Roost Gates.

Beyond the Roost Gates and leading up to the entrance, the little road is in bad shape. It is now ten years since the commune renewed it, and thanks to endless piles of cowsh*t delivered by tractor to M. Houdousse’s field of maize, the path resembles one of the more challenging parts of a motocross rally. But things are not as bad as they might seem, because democracy (in the French form of it) is about to intervene.

Maurice the Mayor is about to retire, and so the election in May will see a fresh field of candidates. Fortuitously – being a taxpaying proprietaire – I have a vote in this election. In fact, I represent 2.3% of the electorate. This puts me in a position of some strength when it comes to getting the entrance road renewed. Now this is the kind of privilege which I regard not just as legally valid, but also entirely earned.

The only problem at the minute is trying to find out whoTF the candidates are. There are stalking horses, dark horses, and for all I know carthorses….but unknown to me is the identity of the horses. Any experienced punter at Kempton Park will tell you that this is not the best starting point for placing a bet. It’s a developing story, but the direction of development remains impenetrable.

Within the gates, transport is no safer. After heavy rain in the late autumn, what was the stone track has turned into mudslide slim. I am thus applying the physics of friction to this problem, with the caveat that one must employ that which is to hand. At the moment, the things mainly to hand are the old oak shingles that used to be my roof. If one puts then in chevron arrangement in the tyre-tracks, they do allow progress to the house, as opposed to unpredictable backwards slithering about, which was what pertained beforehand.

It is of course a holding operation, but listen – if it worked in the Battle of the Bulge, then it’s good enough for me: I may be a historian intellectual, but by God I have some solid Northern English ingenuity about my person.

In the midst of all this, the question remains: what will the weather do next? Over the last few days, it has been very mild and dry, so the grass cutting and raking up of residue has continued apace. But one of the things I have always truly adored about south west France is that we get real weather. By this I mean we get sudden change, spectacular sunsets, bewildering tempests, and catastrophic temperature plunges and rises.

The Meteo this afternoon was predicting –4 centigrade overnight, even though this afternoon there was a ­­pleasantly diluted sunshine offering +18 centigrade. In the summer we can go from 40 degrees clear skies to monsoon downpours with 40 mph winds within forty-five minutes. Although this can result in the pool being full of furniture afterwards, I absolutely love it. There are very few ways of reminding oneself just how minute and fragile our species is than such weather. Earthquakes and volcanoes are even more definitive on the subject, but I don’t wish for those.

This evening I had the builder and his various acolytes here measuring up, writing down and working out whether my ideas and plans are practical. I am happy to tell you that thus far they have been pronounced sound, but time will tell as to whether sound will marry with real when works begin. My experience of builders globally (and French artisans in France) is that measuring, writing, sound, doors, windows, walls, pipes, wires and radiators take on a life of their own once put into place.

This too is a developing saga. Stay tuned.

Earlier at The Slog: Everything is alright really. Straight up. Really.