In the middle

A journal of château life - 6th-12th July 2025

There’s no audio version this week because things are a little busy this morning - I promise it will be back next week though.

Sunday 6th July

The rain is roaring in the woods, drumming on the leaves, shushing down in big heavy drops that plash onto the hard, dry earth one after another. The warm, damp air smells spicy and musky, the rain soaking into the timber of fallen logs, drenching the understory and spangling everything with silver droplets.

I can’t remember when last it rained, but it’s been a while. As the showers pause for breath I can hear the ground sighing and fizzing as the water sinks into it, grateful for a drink after all these dry weeks.

An indoor day, but one I can actually use, not too hot or stuffy, cool enough to get the preserving pan out. It doesn’t take long to turn two kilos of apricots into jam, tweaking my usual recipe with a little more sugar to ease the sharpness.

Rufus and I harvested six apricots from our very own tree, six perfect homegrown apricots. These are too precious for jam, so I whisk together eggs and sugar with a little flour, and cornflour, then pour on some warm vanilla-infused milk, whisking all the time.

The crème pâtissière thickens slowly in the pan as I whisk, turning smooth and golden and sweet with vanilla. I spread it over a sheet of puff pastry and carefully arrange halves of apricot on top, our home grown ones and a few others to make up the numbers. I dredge them all with icing sugar before sliding the tart into the oven to bake until golden.

I wondered if the pastry cream might ooze out from under the apricots but it holds and I brush the caramelised fruit with a glaze of melted apricot jam and amaretto - a beautiful tart for a rainy Sunday.

Monday 7th July

Leaden skies hang over us and a cool northerly wind shakes raindrops from the trees - I probably shouldn’t be delighted by this weather in July, but I am. It’s so lovely not to be hot and to watch the rain soak into the garden, getting into places that the irrigation hoses and watering cans can’t reach.

I don’t even mind it when the wind whips up and the rain starts to pour as I’m cutting my flowers, the downpour soaking through my clothes to the skin in seconds as I heft the flower cart over the step into the greenhouse for shelter.

I stand in the greenhouse doorway watching the torrents of rain track across the lake, sheets of raindrops pummelling the surface, whipping up waves where there are usually none.

The petals drip as I cut my remaining stems, flower heads hanging heavy after the squall. They don’t take long to dry though, raindrops scattering onto the kitchen floor as I strip leaves and arrange my posies, watching the weather blow in and out through the windows.

Tuesday 8th July

With a slow shhhh the salon door sweeps over the tiled floor as I pull it open and step out onto the granite terrace steps. The air is beautifully fresh this morning, the early morning sunlight catching in the clematis leaves and casting dancing shadows on the wooden panelling around the door. I watch them for a moment, not thinking, not moving, just watching, until I remember that I’m supposed to be setting breakfast tables.

I lay out my plates and glasses, bowls of summer berry compote, sweet, cinnamony granola and little pots of creamy yogurt. Beads of condensation form on the jars of homemade jam, the warmth of the room collecting on the cold glass.

As I work, I plan my day, it’s cool outside and would be a perfect garden day, but also a good day to spend in the kitchen batch cooking meals to take us through the rest of the summer season. I’m desperate to finish deadheading the roses, the tomatoes need tying up and there are so many weeds to pull, but in the end the batch cooking wins.

Laurie helps me chop vegetables, standing side-by-side in the kitchen, chatting as we work. Carrots, peppers, courgettes, onions, fennel and garlic all chopped up. He rolls meatballs while I brown beef for chilli and bolognese. The kitchen smells of garlic and summer herbs, pots bubbling with tomatoes and olive oil.

After a few hours we have meals enough to ease the pressure on busy weeks, a breeze blowing in from the garden, sunlight streaming in through the open kitchen door, the last cool day before the temperatures start to rise again.

Wednesday 9th July

With each step the dew squelches around my toes, my socks and trainers sodden as I stumble along the grass path at the edge of the field. I call for Tilly as I walk, whistling and clucking my tongue, hoping that she’ll hear me from wherever she’s hiding.

We haven’t seen her since Sunday morning, and while Margot happily disappears for four or five days at a time, Tilly usually turns up at the kitchen door each morning, singing to us in a little chorus of meows to be let in - she refuses to use the cat flap.

I walk and I call, hoping for a meow and for her to appear through the tall glossy stems of maize or from beneath the hedgerows. She could be anywhere. It’s harvest time, the fields noisy with combines and tractors, the maize high and disorientating. It’s almost exactly two years to the week when she went missing before, eventually turning up in someone’s house on the other side of the village after many days of wandering the fields lost. I’m hoping for a similar miracle this time because there’s no sign of her yet.

I rush home to make breakfast and change beds, then convince Tim to foot ladders for me so I can deadhead the roses at the front of the house. They’re getting very high and my breath comes short and sharp as I reach for the tallest stems, snipping away the hips and flinging the cuttings haphazardly behind me to the floor. I daren’t turn to look where I’m throwing in case I lose my balance and more than once Tim is peppered with thorny stems.

In the early evening we spend an hour wandering the village streets, fields and hedgerows, calling for Tilly without any luck, my fears growing all the time for her. We go out for pizza to take our minds off it, sitting outside on the little square in Beaumont catching up with the boys away from the distractions of home and the business.

Thursday 10th July

A huge bundle of beautiful yellow sunflowers sits in the shade of the kitchen, a sign that Alain has been. We’ve missed him because we were walking the cornfields and the woods beyond, calling for Tilly.

We jumped ditches and ignored the stares of farmers in their tractors and combines as we made our way down the stubbled edges of their fields. In the cool gloomy shade of the woods I began to regret not putting on jeans as the bushes and brambles tore at my legs. These woods sit between two fields and aren’t walked often, the understory is thick with no clear paths and the ground is steeply banked in places. We clambered from one side to the other and then made our way home through the tramlines of François wheat, still no sign of Tilly.

The sunflowers are a lovely welcome home. I fill an old earthenware jug with them and they look so very French and happy on the kitchen table, cheering us up a little after another fruitless search.

We’re happier still moments later when Rufus’ exam results arrive. He’s passed his Brevet with a mention très bien, the top mark possible. A wide smile spreads across his face and after a hug he runs off to share the news with his friends.

This feels like a milestone moment. These last almost eight years have been a huge adjustment for us all. When we arrived in France none of us spoke French, so for Rufus to have achieved such a great mark, studying in his second language, feels amazing. And he’s done it all himself, working hard at school, putting in the effort and earning the marks he deserves for it, we couldn’t be prouder. I cook dinner for our guests with a smile that spreads across my face and doesn’t want to fade.

Friday 11th July

There’s a branch lying across the drive, fallen from the old oak tree, bark splintered across the gravel. It’s not too heavy and I manage to lift one end of it and pivot it off the drive and onto the verge. I brush dirt from my hands and turn to pick up some of the shards of bark from the ground and see Tilly sat at the edge of the woods watching.

I gasp in disbelief and scoop her up for a cuddle. She seems entirely nonchalant, unsure what all the fuss is about and not at all in a hurry to get home, though her belly is definitely empty. We walk back through the woods, the fallen branch forgotten. I carry and coax her homeward, completely disbelieving that she’s back until she is eating away happily and I’ve woken Laurie up to tell him his girl is home.

The rest of the day passes in a blur of beds and chores and a good nap, possible now that Tilly is home, a balm for the sleepless, worried nights and early morning searches.

Saturday 12th July

The hinges of the shutters creak as I push them open to another bright blue sky, another picture perfect summer day. A cool breeze blows across the garden and the air smells sweet with straw. The wheat fields all around us have been cut, shorn to stubble, neat round bales peppering the fields. We can see houses and hedgerows again as we drive the country lanes around us, only the maize and the sunflowers are still standing.

I’m watching the cherry plum tree in the garden. It’s utterly laden with fruit turning from green to blushed pink, pink to cherry red and then to purple with a blueish bloom. I’m waiting to pick them, burned by a very sharp batch of cherry plum jam made too early a few years ago. The first bite is sweet, but towards the stone they’re still sharp enough to dry your mouth and pucker your cheeks. Monty doesn’t seem to mind, helping himself to the fruit from the lower branches each time we pass the tree.

The figs are softening too, but they’ll be a while off yet, the grapes too are starting to swell on the vine, hanging in great green bunches on the end wall of the gîte. We’re missing the raspberries, letting the bindweed grow on the raspberry patch so we can take it down one more time this summer and hopefully get rid of it for good.

In the hedgerows the first green bunches of haws are clustering in the hawthorns, tight green blackberries in the brambles and sloes starting in the blackthorns, all waiting for the sun to bring out their sugars and start them ripening.

It’s mid-July already, we’re officially halfway through our summer season and it feels a little unbelievable. The calendar is filling up, just a handful of nights left to book for guests to come and stay this year.

Next year’s calendar is finally open, retreats planned in, dates snatched up and guests booking for next year before they’ve even left us this year. It feels so good when people want to come back, a reminder that all the long days and hard work are worth it. It gives us a little boost each time the inbox pings, faith that our little business is here to stay.

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