A weekend to remember

A journal of château life - 31st May - 6th June 2026

A weekend to remember - audio version

Sunday 31st May

Steam puffs from the oven as I open the door to peep at our baking tarts, the sweet pastry slowly turning golden. There’s a blast of sweet, vanilla scented air and my glasses are immediately clouded with steam, everyone laughs.

There’s been a lot of laughter, everyone, cooks and non-cooks, throwing themselves into making pastry, friendly competition spurring them on. We’ve chatted as we’ve worked, me telling stories of our early days at the château and the renovation of the gîte, the chatter distracting me from my nerves.

My planned timescales go out of the window; we’re having too much of a good time and I don’t want to rush anyone. There are bowls and bowls of fruit laid out on my work table, strawberries, raspberries and cherries that Tim picked up at the market this morning. More than enough fruit for everyone to decorate their tarts once the pastry is cool and we’ve filled them with mascarpone cream.

I slip out into the cutting garden to pick some violas to decorate the tarts with and let out a long breath, puffing out my cheeks, rolling my shoulders back and opening my arms to the breeze. I haven’t had time to stop and breathe all morning, my mind rushing from one task to the next; clearing breakfast, making beds while our guests mooched around the market with Tim, preparing the main course for our meal later, making apero snacks so no one is hungry when they get back from their morning out, running back and forth to the gîte kitchen with the last of the ingredients for my cooking class, Laurie helping me as the time started to slip away and my panic began to rise.

I snip a pot full of flowers, their sweet purple and blue faces perfect for a final flourish to the tray of berry topped fruit tarts we’ve made for pudding. Tim has set the tables on the terrace with blue striped tablecloths and linen napkins, sun umbrellas to shield us from the late afternoon sun. It looks calm and beautiful with the roses scrambling up the back of the house.

I slide the salmon I prepared this morning into the oven to roast, a sharp salsa verde to offset its richness. There’s a French potato salad with a mustardy vinaigrette, the first tomatoes with mozzarella and basil, green salad with crisp croutons to go with it and a creamy asparagus soup to start.

Today we sit down to eat with our guests, getting time to relax and chat and enjoy the sunshine and the cool breeze that has made the day perfect, every hint of yesterday’s heat gone. The sweet tarts are a perfect ending and as we clear up our guests, still laughing and chatting, head off for a walk together through the woods.

Monday 1st June

A slow, quiet day, much needed by everyone. Time to read, nap, draw and wander. We take our guests out for lunch at the Mariette, our favourite local restaurant, a traditionally French country place in a pretty village just down the road.

We fill our plates from a buffet filled with poached salmon, shellfish, salads, patés and terrines and sit outside on a shady terrace, chatting and swapping stories. I sip my kir pétillant, grateful to be sitting down while someone else cooks. Some are brave enough to tackle a main course, the rest of us waiting for pudding, already stretching back in our chairs with taut, full stomachs.

The house is quiet all afternoon, everyone napping or reading, lulled to sleep by the birds and the crickets, or out shopping and exploring. I snatch some time for a nap, grateful to rest my aching feet. Sleep doesn’t come, my mind buzzing over everything that’s happened over the weekend. It’s been such a pleasure to host and share our love of food. I have rushed between kitchens and ovens, we’ve set tables and cleared them over and over, cooked and washed up, walked thousands of steps between the cooker and the kitchen sink, but it’s been so much fun.

Each time someone has taken me to the side to tell me what a lovely time they’re having, I’ve felt my heart swell a little in my chest, a little bit of relief bringing a smile to my face. It’s all turned out as I’d hoped, our usual hospitality with a few specially curated experiences on top. Experiences that might be hard to find on your own; vineyards and markets, great French food, good wine, fresh produce and lots of meals around beautiful tables. It’s been a privilege to host such a lovely, happy group of people ready to throw themselves into every experience and have a good time. I’ve loved every minute, it’s truly felt like hosting friends and I can’t wait to do it all again soon.

Tuesday 2nd June

The preserving pan has been bubbling all morning, leftover fruit being turned into jam. My fingers are stained brown with cherry juice as I stand easing out their stones, I toss them in sugar with strawberries, raspberries, blueberries and plums, our need to make sure there was an abundance at the weekend now giving me an excuse to restock the jam shelf. There are bowls of leftover tomatoes too and I chop them up, setting them to cook away to a chutney with garlic, ginger, chillies, sugar and vinegar, making sure nothing goes to waste.

I’m keeping myself busy, pottering, slowly putting the weekend away. Our guests all left after a final breakfast, off home or onwards on their travels, leaving us with a quiet house. I find it hard to stop, I should probably sit for a while, but it feels good to get the kitchen tidy again.

Rain showers blow in and out, stopping me from working in the garden. In the dry spells when the sunlight plays through the trees the scent of lime blossoms swirl in through the open windows. I remember reading a recipe for Lime Blossom Cordial on Mark Diacono’s Substack last year and there are lemons in the fruit bowl that need using up.

Brian is asleep in the wicker basket I usually use for foraging, so I pick up an old black bucket instead and follow my nose to the freshest lime blossoms, looking for the palest open flowers on their lemon green bracts. I pinch the bract between my thumb and forefinger and gently pull upwards to pick them from the tree, taking the papery yellow leaf along with them.

Back in the kitchen I pick through the lime blossoms, pulling off the dry, parchment-thin leaves and plunging handfuls of flowers into a jar of freshly made sugar syrup spiked with lemon juice. Mark mentioned that the citrus flavour mellowed after a few days so I add a little citric acid to cut through the sugar - an experiment. I leave it to infuse for a day or so, hoping to capture some of that fresh floral scent that will always remind me of early summer here.

Totally Tangerine is always the first dahlia to flower - but this is still very, very early.

Wednesday 3rd June

The alchemical mixture of rain and intense heat has done wonders for the weeds in the cutting garden. I kneel in the grass pulling bindweed, thistles and purslane from the soil, making way for the last of the dahlias. Showers blow in and out, but I’m determined to keep working and get the final pots planted, making the most of the spare day before our next guests arrive.

The very first Totally Tangerines are already flowering in the beds I planted up earlier. They’re always first the totally tangerines, coming up wildly orange at first, not going with anything else that’s growing in the garden right now, clashing horribly with the clear pinks, blues and mauves of the larkspur, nigella and sweet peas. At this point I always wonder why I grow them, but in a few weeks’ time the heat and light of summer will mellow and soften the flowers, turning them dusky and making them one of the most useful flowers for pulling together all the warm late summer colours in my garden, the dusky pinks and apricots, rich burgundies and soft creams.

Hopefully by the end of this week I’ll have almost everything planted out, the last fences built and supports in. Then I can just wait and watch, cutting and deadheading, feeding and weeding all the way until the autumn, with a garden full of flowers for my efforts.

Thursday 4th June

A rainbow curves over the cutting garden, dark, rain-filled clouds caught in a patch of sunshine, the flowers glowing in the evening light. I walk through the beds, looking at my flowers, soaking up the calm at the end of a non-stop day.

Things are still a little hit-and-miss with the new cleaners and today was a bit of a miss. We spent a good hour of our afternoon catching things that had been forgotten or not quite finished, re-making beds and dusting corners. Time we should have to rest or get on top of something else. This is the thing I find hardest about owning a business; trying to find people who care as much as we do and then having to find a way to solve the problem when they don’t.

The cost of this new cleaning company is fairly substantial and we were promised a slick, professional service. But as is often, unfortunately, the case in France, that hasn’t quite materialised. We could complain of course, risk upsetting people, but in rural France there’s a chance the one person you’ve found willing to work might walk away, leaving you with no one to help at all.

Bed making seems to be the sticking point. Sylvie is so keen and desperate to make them how I like them that the time ticks away, making her rush with everything else. The solution perhaps is that I do the beds, leaving her free to clean the rest of the house. It’s far from ideal and I’m not quite sure where I’ll find the time between the flowers and the cooking that I usually try and get done on the days she’s here to take cleaning off my hands. But perhaps we can work it out between us and find a rhythm? Perhaps if I take away the beds she can get the guest rooms done faster and ease my load in our side of the house instead? We’ll have to see.

I run my fingers through the feathery foliage of the larkspur, the tall spires of flowers bobbing and dipping as I walk past them. Time for bed, a well-deserved rest after a long and busy day.

Friday 5th June

I line my colander with a piece of muslin and pour the lime blossom cordial through it into a big ceramic bowl. The flowers collect in a sodden, sugary mass in the bottom of the cloth and I gather the edges together, twisting and squeezing lightly to strain away the last of the cordial.

I lick my fingers before I wash them, my first taste of the sweet, floral cordial. It’s slightly citrus but with a sort of cucumbery freshness on the end, entirely different from elderflower, the scent of the lime blossoms captured in the syrup. I pour some over ice and top it up with a little tonic, a slice of lemon making it a lovely drink for a warm summer afternoon.

We spent all morning putting the gîte back to rights, carrying the big old trestle table back out to an old barn in the farmyard, moving the kitchen table back into place, packing up the rolling pins, mixing bowls and tart tins until the next time. The last traces of a brilliant weekend cleared away, everywhere is back to normal and the house is full of guests again, with new gîte guests on their way as we work.

Saturday 6th June

The wind is a little keen, sweeping through the house and rattling doors, flinging shutters back and forth and scattering the pollen from the lime trees all over the garden. It’s got a slight nip to it too and when it sends the clouds scudding across the face of the sun goosebumps prick on my arms and legs.

I’m making the most of a spare few hours between cleaning rooms and cooking dinner to dead head the roses on the terrace; only those I can reach, it’s far too windy for ladders today. Petals scatter across the gravel, loosened by first the sun and then the rain. Sodden flowers have crisped and browned in the heat and I cut deep down the thorn studded stems in the hopes of bringing on a flush of new roses later in the summer. I work until the storm clouds gather and the wind blows in a shower strong enough to chase me inside for the rest of the afternoon.

At the tail end of the day the wind is still up to mischief as I light the candies and switch on the lamps as the light seeps away. Twisting and twirling around the garden the breeze makes the shadow forms of jasmine and wisteria leaves dance on the walls in the mottled setting sunlight shining in through the old windows. I lean out to pull the shutters closed, the ancient hinges creaking, only for the wind to catch them like sails, blowing them back against the wall, fighting me as I tug them inwards again, my arms finally winning the fight, the shutters turning their backs on the wind and securing the house against the coming night.

If you’d like to find our more about the retreat weekends we host here you can find all the details here.

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