COLUMN


Woody’s worries


How much wood would Ruth Wood cut if Ruth Wood could cut wood?


“P


hwoar! That’s a beauty,” exclaimed my husband Jon one morning as


we turned off the autoroute in search of croissants. I looked out of the car window and saw a generic village house with a breezeblock gable, rolled down shutters and an air of desolation. “Eh? Beauty? What?” “Not the house,” tutted Jon. “The woodpile.” I followed his gaze and


whistled. Running the full length of the driveway was a majestic wall of fi rewood, the logs all split and meticulously stacked to a height almost as tall as me. It looked like a lifetime’s supply, maybe more. “Woooowwww!” We’ve seen dozens of


woodpiles like this in France over the years and have always admired them. In the past they were part of our family’s never- ending bingo game whereby we award 50 points to whoever spots a communal bread oven (four à pain), 25 points for an old washhouse (lavoir), 25 points for a water tower (château d’eau) and 10 points for an impressive woodpile (tas de bois). Meaningless but good fun. More recently though,


we’ve stopped shrieking with excitement when we spy them. In these days of volatile energy markets and high electricity bills, the woodpiles around our


holiday home in Brittany have taken on an almost hallowed signifi cance. We pass them in deferential silence, impressed by the security and resources they represent. They symbolise something


else we’re lacking too – time. Jon and I both work long hours and spend our days growing ever pudgier and paler in the blue glow of our computer screens. By contrast, the voluminous woodpile brings to mind lithe, stoic, fresh-air types who not only have the energy to chop, split and stack but an abundance of time to


do it, dedicating unhurried days outdoors to perfecting the perfect well-aired pile. Humph. Lucky them. We seldom use our


woodburner at home in the UK because we live in a built-up area where the air quality is already low. But in our Morbihan hamlet where we have few neighbours save for sheep, goats and an alpaca called Kevin, we get through a fair whack of wood on our short winter stays. Funnily enough, we


actually own a piece of French woodland. Measuring 350m2


,


it’s a little parcel of land that came to us as part of our purchase of the cottage, and we call it Len’s Wood after Jon’s late grandfather. There are just two obstacles to us using this precious resource to keep our home warm for years to come. Firstly, the trees on the land


are protected. And secondly, Len’s Wood is entirely surrounded by another piece of land that we don’t own – namely our neighbour’s back garden! Such are the quirks of land ownership in France.


“In these days of high electricity bills, woodpiles have taken on an almost hallowed signifi cance”


The Morbihan woodburner in action There’s an old adage that


fi rewood heats you three times: once when you cut it, once when you stack it and once when you burn it. Hmm. What about the time you drive past a woodpile and burn with envy? The French have their


fi rewood-related sayings too, of course. I’m not saying chopping wood is a man’s job but when the French say “let’s see what fi rewood he burns” they really mean “let’s see what this man is made of”. I’ll tell you what kind of


fi rewood we burn: whatever Super U has in stock. It heats us four times: once when we burn it and the other three times when we go backwards and forwards to the supermarket to load it in and out of the car. Until I go part-time or retire I suppose I’ll have to limit my logging duties to cutting myself a slice of Yule log. ■


Woodpile-spotting around France is a key part of Ruth and her family’s ’bingo’ driving game! 106 FRENCH PROPERTY NEWS: January/February 2024


© RUTH WOOD


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