Pegging out
Is it just me, or do you too get that same sense of satisfaction when you see your washing flapping in the breeze? I love as well the freshly dried scent of it as it’s brought in.
Fifty years ago as a wee girl I remember Mum hanging out the family wash, as ever in her house-working turban (with three curlers peeping out on her brow), pinny and front-zip calf length boots.
The display of bed sheets propped high on wooden stretchers (which handily doubled as totem poles from time to time) looked like huge bunting snapping and cracking themselves dry in the howling wind of the Lammermoor Hills. The same wind hurled us bairns down the road to school, my sister and I looking like rosy cheeked banshees with our long hair blasted into horrid ringlets.
Here in France I often reflect on how this is one of life's simple pleasures, like setting and lighting a log fire on a winter's day. That 'whoosh' sound as the kindling takes light. Perfect. All seems right with the world no matter where you are, when you can peg out and light a fire. I first heard the Yorkshire term ‘pegging out’ when we lived in my husband Jeff’s native Bradford. I had thought it meant someone or something (like your car) had gotten very old and died.
“Ee lass”, my kindly neighbour would say, “’tha’s not pegging out t’day? Luks lak rain ter me”.
Our first French garden was mostly lawn with washing lines garlanded through the trees behind the house. We had settled in the pretty village of Villemorin in Charente-Maritime where I had an idyllic view into our neighbour’s allotment packed with vegetables and flowers growing effortlessly weed free. Monsieur Brassard at 85 worked his land not out of necessity, (he was long retired and very wealthy) but because it’s the French way of life, and that’s what I adore, the love of the land, the care and attention to detail and the fierté de leurs produits. Monsieur B didn’t say much, just a nod and a smile and there would be little gifts of fresh vegetables, fruit or flowers left under our billowing sheets. Sometimes I’d hug myself with glee from the sheer pleasure of these simple things.
We lived in that house just six months while we dithered, in English of course as we had only the bare basics of French, about whether we really liked living in France or not. Of course we did but while the house was open plan, beautiful and airy with exposed stone walls, it was freezing in the winter! We did decide to stay and having found another much cosier house, upped sticks and moved to Deux-Sevres.
At the new house with its panoramic views, gazing down the valley to the Forêt de Secondigny was a glorious treat. Not only that, I had the company of three splendid chickens who seemed to find my wash day antics of great interest (or maybe it was amusement).
My working life started at 15, with many lunch times spent sitting in Edinburgh’s Waverley Station soaking up the spirit of fellow travellers, longing to be one of them. At 18 I first left home ‘to see the world’ travelling alone to Montreal in Canada, lived there for a couple of years and have been roving it seems ever since. In over 30 years together Jeff and I have relocated many, many times around Scotland, England, Éire and France. We’ve bought, sold and sometimes renovated modern and old bungalows, farmhouses, terraces - we have done it all, mostly relocating through work opportunities. Nowadays as a lifestyle choice we choose to invest in adventure and travel rather than join the ‘BaBaRi’s (buy-a-barn-and-renovate-it) gang. Alright there is an element of uncertainty and risk, but it means enjoying our freedom and satisfying our gypsy wanderlust. We don’t knock ‘a home in the sun’ ownership, but right now it’s not for us. We have found that we no longer share the British obsession with home ownership, thus we can take advantage of the huge and excellent value rental market here in France. Interestingly in Europe the average renting population is around 29% with France, Germany and Denmark around 40% and the UK 27%. We are not alone in our choice.
We both share the same exquisite thrill of moving into a new home, sometimes someone else’s, somewhere else, and now in another country, where everything is different; not just the language. The wind, the sun, the sounds, the light, the food and where the ordinary ‘to do’ list takes on a fun and challenging perspective. Even tackling the grocery shopping, or the discovery that we cannot just transfer to another branch of the same bank, ‘mais non!’ can be a baffling although enjoyable distraction. We love the differences and maintaining our homely routines helps banish any wee pangs of homesickness.
After more than forty years non-stop work, at last leaving my public servitude behind, I delight in having time for those tasks with a deep sense of peace and tranquillity. Not only that but on a practical level, pegging out costs nothing, reduces our carbon footprint by saving on the energy bills, is aesthetically pleasing and smells divine!
I read somewhere that we can save around €20 a month by leaving the tumble drier switched off. It makes me wonder what the effect would be if everyone stopped using tumble driers? The sight of washing merrily dancing on the line to me reflects humankind working hand in hand with nature and keeps me steady at the helm while we house-hop. There is something in my heart that yearns to peg out (the washing that is) no matter where I am.
In the new place, we love to muse over some feature – the views, the strange furniture, bizarre wallpaper (on the doors and ceiling!), the garden, the essence of other people lurking in the corners and imagine the drama of their lives before us. The simple pleasure of poking about the new home never fails and when the newness wears off, or somewhere else beckons, we can pack the pegs and go.
Having de-cluttered several times, we are getting it down to a fine art. As soon as we start toying with the idea of moving again, our things seem to line up and as if by magic, piles appear, lists start, boxes fill up and we find ourselves ready for le déménagement. Thankfully tolerant family and friends think us nomadic pensioners a bit funky (or maybe a little bonkers). Our Christmas card list gets longer though as we collect more friends who come to know us well enough not to be surprised when we announce another new address.
These winter months we are ‘house-sitting’ a holiday gîte just south of Toulouse while the owners take an extended trip to the UK. I adore the pretty snow-capped Pyrenees in the distance and picturesque hill top villages galore. We like it so much we have already found and secured our next new home in the Tarn and move there in the spring. From there we will explore the midi Pyrenees for a year or two as well as house-sitting around Europe and maybe Australia/New Zealand. I am looking forward to wash days there!
Maybe our alternative life style is not for everyone. The buzz of retiring a bit early, selling up lock, stock and getting rid of the barrels (that is the hardest bit), moving with our dwindling chattels to strange new places, leaving the familiar, the ‘what if’ and ‘what’s next’; it’s hard to beat. Now, where did I put those pegs?
Fifty years ago as a wee girl I remember Mum hanging out the family wash, as ever in her house-working turban (with three curlers peeping out on her brow), pinny and front-zip calf length boots.
 |
| me and Mum circa 1968 |
Here in France I often reflect on how this is one of life's simple pleasures, like setting and lighting a log fire on a winter's day. That 'whoosh' sound as the kindling takes light. Perfect. All seems right with the world no matter where you are, when you can peg out and light a fire. I first heard the Yorkshire term ‘pegging out’ when we lived in my husband Jeff’s native Bradford. I had thought it meant someone or something (like your car) had gotten very old and died.
“Ee lass”, my kindly neighbour would say, “’tha’s not pegging out t’day? Luks lak rain ter me”.
Our first French garden was mostly lawn with washing lines garlanded through the trees behind the house. We had settled in the pretty village of Villemorin in Charente-Maritime where I had an idyllic view into our neighbour’s allotment packed with vegetables and flowers growing effortlessly weed free. Monsieur Brassard at 85 worked his land not out of necessity, (he was long retired and very wealthy) but because it’s the French way of life, and that’s what I adore, the love of the land, the care and attention to detail and the fierté de leurs produits. Monsieur B didn’t say much, just a nod and a smile and there would be little gifts of fresh vegetables, fruit or flowers left under our billowing sheets. Sometimes I’d hug myself with glee from the sheer pleasure of these simple things.
We lived in that house just six months while we dithered, in English of course as we had only the bare basics of French, about whether we really liked living in France or not. Of course we did but while the house was open plan, beautiful and airy with exposed stone walls, it was freezing in the winter! We did decide to stay and having found another much cosier house, upped sticks and moved to Deux-Sevres.
At the new house with its panoramic views, gazing down the valley to the Forêt de Secondigny was a glorious treat. Not only that, I had the company of three splendid chickens who seemed to find my wash day antics of great interest (or maybe it was amusement).
My working life started at 15, with many lunch times spent sitting in Edinburgh’s Waverley Station soaking up the spirit of fellow travellers, longing to be one of them. At 18 I first left home ‘to see the world’ travelling alone to Montreal in Canada, lived there for a couple of years and have been roving it seems ever since. In over 30 years together Jeff and I have relocated many, many times around Scotland, England, Éire and France. We’ve bought, sold and sometimes renovated modern and old bungalows, farmhouses, terraces - we have done it all, mostly relocating through work opportunities. Nowadays as a lifestyle choice we choose to invest in adventure and travel rather than join the ‘BaBaRi’s (buy-a-barn-and-renovate-it) gang. Alright there is an element of uncertainty and risk, but it means enjoying our freedom and satisfying our gypsy wanderlust. We don’t knock ‘a home in the sun’ ownership, but right now it’s not for us. We have found that we no longer share the British obsession with home ownership, thus we can take advantage of the huge and excellent value rental market here in France. Interestingly in Europe the average renting population is around 29% with France, Germany and Denmark around 40% and the UK 27%. We are not alone in our choice.
We both share the same exquisite thrill of moving into a new home, sometimes someone else’s, somewhere else, and now in another country, where everything is different; not just the language. The wind, the sun, the sounds, the light, the food and where the ordinary ‘to do’ list takes on a fun and challenging perspective. Even tackling the grocery shopping, or the discovery that we cannot just transfer to another branch of the same bank, ‘mais non!’ can be a baffling although enjoyable distraction. We love the differences and maintaining our homely routines helps banish any wee pangs of homesickness.
After more than forty years non-stop work, at last leaving my public servitude behind, I delight in having time for those tasks with a deep sense of peace and tranquillity. Not only that but on a practical level, pegging out costs nothing, reduces our carbon footprint by saving on the energy bills, is aesthetically pleasing and smells divine!
I read somewhere that we can save around €20 a month by leaving the tumble drier switched off. It makes me wonder what the effect would be if everyone stopped using tumble driers? The sight of washing merrily dancing on the line to me reflects humankind working hand in hand with nature and keeps me steady at the helm while we house-hop. There is something in my heart that yearns to peg out (the washing that is) no matter where I am.
In the new place, we love to muse over some feature – the views, the strange furniture, bizarre wallpaper (on the doors and ceiling!), the garden, the essence of other people lurking in the corners and imagine the drama of their lives before us. The simple pleasure of poking about the new home never fails and when the newness wears off, or somewhere else beckons, we can pack the pegs and go.
Having de-cluttered several times, we are getting it down to a fine art. As soon as we start toying with the idea of moving again, our things seem to line up and as if by magic, piles appear, lists start, boxes fill up and we find ourselves ready for le déménagement. Thankfully tolerant family and friends think us nomadic pensioners a bit funky (or maybe a little bonkers). Our Christmas card list gets longer though as we collect more friends who come to know us well enough not to be surprised when we announce another new address.
These winter months we are ‘house-sitting’ a holiday gîte just south of Toulouse while the owners take an extended trip to the UK. I adore the pretty snow-capped Pyrenees in the distance and picturesque hill top villages galore. We like it so much we have already found and secured our next new home in the Tarn and move there in the spring. From there we will explore the midi Pyrenees for a year or two as well as house-sitting around Europe and maybe Australia/New Zealand. I am looking forward to wash days there!
Maybe our alternative life style is not for everyone. The buzz of retiring a bit early, selling up lock, stock and getting rid of the barrels (that is the hardest bit), moving with our dwindling chattels to strange new places, leaving the familiar, the ‘what if’ and ‘what’s next’; it’s hard to beat. Now, where did I put those pegs?
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