Sunday 31st March
Lauren and I sneak out of the house after breakfast with a bag full of chocolate eggs. Each egg is wrapped tightly in brightly coloured foil, but a sweet smell of caramel, chocolate and praline still rises from the bag each time one of us grabs a handful to leave on a bed of moss at the base of a tree, or tuck into a tuft of grass.
We walk quickly and quietly, the birds are singing loudly in the trees, providing the soundtrack as we leave a trail of eggs up one avenue of lime trees, through the woods and back down the other avenue. Scattering tiny eggs every few feet to lead the way.
The children run along our route, each filling a pot with chocolate. We send them backwards multiple times to collect eggs they’ve missed in their haste. In all of five minutes it’s over and we’re back in the kitchen dividing eggs evenly between them all. They disappear off into the house leaving a trail of shiny egg wrappers where ever they’ve been.
Monday 1st April
The night is stormy, the wind howling mournfully around the chimneys, a desolate wail that keeps waking me. But the morning is momentarily bright, patches of blue sky between the clouds that are skudding across the sky like galleons. Monty and I walk in the wind, the cats charging around at our feet, sent wild by every gust.
By mid-morning there is a tree down across the drive, a tangle of branches and a hefty trunk blocking the route to the station. Its roots torn out easily from the dark, loamy, rain sodden ground. It’s thankfully small enough that Tim and Henry between them can inch it to the side, far enough into the ditch to get the car past and avoid another missed train journey.
I slip away from the chatter in the kitchen, seeking out a little quiet time by myself. The greenhouse is warm, sheltered from the wind that’s still wuthering around the tree tops. The cosmos are growing fast, I lever them out of their 40 cell trays and pot them on, giving them fresh compost and more space to grow.
The cosmos double click cranberries aren’t germinating. My seed is a few years old now and perhaps past its best. I order some more, loath to have a summer without their deep pink ruffled faces.
Tuesday 2nd April
We wave off the rest of our guests and pack the boys off to school (their spring break isn’t for a few weeks yet) and then get back to work on the drive, determined to make up for the lost time of a weekend off.
Tim is driving the tractor and trailer and I am pulling the gravel off the back into the pot holes. I swing my rake up like an axe, stoving its teeth into the enormous pile of sandy orange gravel. I pull back with my arms, bringing a shower of rocks and pebbles tumbling out of the back of the trailer and onto the floor.
I do this over and over again until I think there is a pile of stone large enough to fill each particular pot hole. I rake the pile into the hole, filling it proud to allow it to settle over time, feathering out the edges gradually so as not to leave a hard hump of stone.
Tim jumps out to help when he can, but the old tractor is cantankerous, unpredictable, not always that reliably still with the engine running and the handbrake on. And so my arms, back and stomach muscles burn as I rake and heave my way through the best part of eight tonnes of gravel.
The hydraulics on the trailer tipping mechanism seize part way up, struggling under the weight of the gravel. It should tip the gravel slowly towards me, but it doesn’t, instead I have to throw my rake higher and higher to reach the stone. Of course it’s raining, a fine mizzle this time, cooling me down as I work, my clothes damp with rain and effort.
By lunchtime every hole is filled and Tim trundles off in the tractor to Alain’s for a re-fill of stone. He and Alain spend the afternoon in the tractors, adding a final layer of gravel to the worst hit areas of the drive, a sturdy surface to last us at least until next winter, safe and smooth enough for our guests to drive up and down all summer long. The drive finally ticked off the list, my arms and shoulders are grateful.
Wednesday 3rd April
I sit on our bedroom floor, the oak parquet panels covered in piles of new sheets, pillow cases and duvet covers. I work through them one-by-one, methodically writing “La Ruche” onto each label with a black permanent pen. I bag them all up into cotton sacks for the laundry, a first wash and iron before we use them. I’m very grateful that this is not my job to do, they’ll come back next week clean and freshly pressed, ready for me to store away.
I sort through the towel cupboard, weeding out old tired towels that no longer look their best. In their place I stack piles of new, freshly washed white towels, still warm from the dryer. Tucking everything away neatly for the start of the season.
I label new linens for our little shop too. Tablecloths, napkins, runners and cushion covers, all made for us using French hemp and flax. They are carefully packaged and tied with a brown Kraft luggage label that I stamp with our pretty flower logo.
We are hustling now, picking up the pace, starting to get the house ready to welcome guests again. One of the ateliers is chock full of rubbish for the dump. Scrap metal, off-cuts of wood, defunct tools, stacks of cardboard, junk we’ve cleared out over the winter from re-organised workshops.
We pile everything into the trailer and soon run out of space, the truck is stuffed with bags of old sheets and towels that are no longer pristine enough for the chambres d’hôtes, ready to be donated to charity, the seats piled with stacks of cardboard and packaging for recycling.
We drive off, rumbling down the drive towards the village. I glance in the wing mirror and see Monty chasing us, Tim speeds up, hoping to lose him in the woods, but when we pause at the top of the drive he is there, panting hard, determined to come for the ride. I squeeze him in between the bin bags of old bedlinen and flattened cardboard boxes and he comes along, joining us for an afternoon of errands.
Thursday 4th April
I’m at the top of the step later again, this time carefully cleaning each crystal of the hall chandelier. Wiping each faceted piece of glass with vinegar spray, sweeping away a layer of dust and fly marks, making it sparkle again. The chandelier twists as I work, turning and catching the light. No sun today though, just more grey skies.
I’m cleaning the chandeliers and Tim and Nicky are deep cleaning rooms. Dusting panelling and skirting boards, descaling kettles, coffee machines and shower heads, clearing cobwebs from every corner.
Time slips away quickly and I abandon the chandeliers and turn my attention to the salon. I buff smudges off of the mirror, wipe finger marks from door frames, dust long neglected furniture and clean every inch of the room. On my knees I scrub dirty spots from rugs with the carpet cleaner, fluffing the pile as I go.
Our retreats start next week and we want every inch of the house to be ready. The rooms seem brighter, the colours lifted from underneath a layer of winter dust, life breathing back into them again after a season of quiet rest. The same cannot be said for us, we crawl into bed, tired and aching, longing for enough sleep to allow us to do it all again tomorrow.
Friday 5th April
From the top of the step ladder I can just reach the apex of the roof beams with the cobweb brush. It’s unwieldy, but I can sweep it along the sturdy old oak rafters, knocking off dust and spiders webs, sending clouds of debris swirling down to the floor.
I move the ladder around the room, seeking out every dusty corner of the gîte sitting room. We are deep cleaning in here today, opening windows, letting in the mild air of another grey spring day and ushering out clusters of ladybirds just waking up from their winter sleep.
I run back and forth from the house, lugging baskets of clean linen one way, and duvets for the wash the other. Nicky is hoovering, mopping, wiping, I’m making beds and folding towels, Tim is shopping, restocking the cupboards and fridges with everything we need to cater for a house full of guests again. Another busy day. Nothing is as finished as I’d hoped it would be. There’s still time though, a whole weekend to get everything straight.
Saturday 6th April
Green has arrived, all of a sudden nudging out the browns and greys of winter, dazzling us all with its fresh newness. The air is full of the smell of it, that bright, fresh leafiness of spring with a base note of blossom. It’s arrived despite the rain and grey skies, a sure sign that the seasons keep turning whatever else is going on.
The retreat flowers arrive mid-morning, buckets and buckets of them. We unload them from the lorry, carrying each bucket one-by-one and lining them up in the gîte kitchen. It looks like a flower shop the scent of stocks and roses filling the room. So many flowers in shades of pink, cream, mauve and apricot. I can’t wait to see what’s created with them this week.
There’s no time to wonder though, there are beds to make and more cleaning to do. I am back on my step ladder, rehanging the muslin curtains in the Garden Room bathroom, clean and fresh after their winter wash.
While I have the ladder I clean the chandelier, working my way steadily round each crystal. It’s one of my favourites this one, strings of tiny glass beads, little flower rosettes and faceted tear drops. I’m reaching the last few strings of beads, wiping away the dulling dust from the glass, when the chandelier drops. It falls so fast that it hits the hard ceramic tiled floor before I realise it has fallen.
I gasp, scramble down the ladder and kneel beside it, shattered crystals scattered all over the bathroom floor. The noise of its landing was almighty, the sound of smashing glass reverberating through every room. Everyone comes running.
I look up at the ceiling and back to the floor in disbelief, my hands over my mouth in shock. I am numb, staring blankly at the mess of glass on the ground. Then suddenly my mind is whirring, what are we going to do? The guests arrive on Monday, Liz arrives to set up the retreat tomorrow, this beautiful bathroom now has no light and the chandelier is in pieces on the floor.
I run up the stairs to the attic. My chandelier collection hangs from the rafters of my sewing room. I look at them all, several are too small, the others have ancient wiring. I look pleadingly at Tim, wondering if there is time to get one of the larger ones fixed up and working? He’s unsure.
I run back down to the bathroom, and gingerly lift the chandelier from the floor. It’s bent and battered, a good number of crystals smashed and one of the candle cups too. But it might be salvageable. Tim takes it to the attic and hangs it up so he can work on it, straightening bent arms, retying snapped strings of crystals. We gather unbroken but loose crystals from the floor, saving anything that can be reused to make it look whole again. I sweep up shards of glass from every inch of the floor, moving around the room, looking from every angle, waiting for that crystal glint to reveal another missed sliver.
I feel sick as I cook dinner, my heart hammering in my chest, worry about what we’ll do if it can’t be fixed. I’m just setting the table when Tim sends me a picture. The chandelier is back up, hooked securely to the ceiling and working again. It’s missing some crystals, has had to be re-worked in places and is far from perfect, but when it’s up, hanging from the high ceiling you can’t really see the damage unless you know where to look. I’m so grateful. Over time we can source the right pieces for a proper fix, but for now it works and no one should be any the wiser.
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Oh gosh Rebecca, that must have been such a shock. Glad no one was injured and Tim worked his magic. You are both always so busy, not sure where you find the energy. Have a great week. X
Your journal is such a memorable part of my life in Australia.
I look forward to my French escape with you and Tim.
My husband and I have had the good fortune to visit France five times and it beckons us to return.
Your commitment and passion are so inspiring and your command of the written word is pure poetry.
You possess the unique gift of creating such pure and clear images evoking all our senses.
Perhaps one day, there will be an opportunity to visit and stay in your gorgeous home.
I wish you a successful tourist season with hopefully some more opportunities for a family getaway.
Kind regards, Lynne xx