It has taken me a long time to write this piece. I think that I can say, hand-on-heart, that if it wasn’t for Alain we might have considered giving up on this life at several points in our journey so far. We could not have asked for a better neighbour. Kind, patient and eternally helpful. He always seems to arrive just at the right moment, that wry smile on his face, ready to show us a better way of doing something, bringing us machine power when our muscles are failing and correcting our terrible French at every opportunity. We have learnt from him and he has learnt from us, each of us sharing our own pieces of wisdom, with us all meeting in the middle at a shared love of the countryside, old things and good food. We wouldn’t be without him, to us he is a true legend and we feel very grateful to call him our neighbour. Our first few weeks here would certainly have smelt a whole lot different if it wasn’t for Alain…..
There is a bed of Japanese anemones outside the kitchen door, pink flowers on tall thin stems, their petals opening and closing with the warmth of the sun. I sit on the bench in front of them, my legs curled underneath me, staring out across the garden.
It is late September and still warm, though the days are shortening. The light is golden, sloping through the trees with a mellow clarity that makes everything bright, but somehow soft all at once. I close my eyes and soak it in, listening to the birds and breathing in the scent of warm grass.
There are drifts of autumn cyclamen too, a carpet of tiny mauve flowers sprinkled through the grass in the shade of the linden trees, and they are all now mine. It still feels as though I am on some extended holiday. It still doesn’t feel real. Despite all the cleaning and organising and sorting, I still don’t quite believe that I have thrown my lot in with this house.
We have been making the most of the good weather, clearing over grown areas of the gardens, piling a little old handcart made with scrap metal and old bike wheels with brambles and trundling them to the bonfire. Somehow the work in the garden seems less daunting than in the house. The house seems vast and unfathomable and outside work is a good distraction.
It is on one of these golden days that Alain arrives. He rattles down the drive in his dusty, forest green 4x4. He is tall and strong looking, his face tanned and his head bald. Not at all how I had imagined our French farmer neighbour would be.
He stands in the kitchen, a huge smile on his face, eyes twinkling wryly. “Bonjour, je m’appelle Alain, je suis votre voisin,” he says, holding out a huge hand for me to shake.
“Bonjour, je m’appelle Rebecca,” I manage to stammer back, plastering my reddened face with the smile I have developed for all of these meetings. I hope it hides my terror and embarrassment at my pathetic lack of French, and makes people want to speak painfully slowly so that this ridiculous English woman who has bought the Château can understand.
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