Everywhere we go, huge walls of logs are trustingly stacked up to dry, not simply for this winter, but for two more to come. Everywhere. G and I never buy wood in England but through resourcefulness and opportunism get fuel for free. I say “we” get wood but G finds the tree, chops it down, cuts it into rings, puts it in a trailer, drives it home, carries it into our back garden, hacks it into chunks, stacks it, fills a basket, carries it in and puts it by the fire. That he has laid. I am a feminist poster girl. Here everyone assured us such self sufficiency would be impossible. We would have to (gulp) buy some.
Being surrounded by wood left us feeling complacent and we were virtually out of the stuff before we went on a family stomp round the village to investigate who our local dealer might be. We asked seven people who pretty much responded the same way. With a befuddled frown they would look skywards, straining to recall anything that might be helpful. But no, they had no idea how to get wood. They knew it had to be bought, they undoubtably had some, but how to get it….