Picnics and pots

A journal of château life - 1st-7th June 2025

Picnics and pots - audio version

Sunday 1st June

There are low tables arranged on a patch of grass in the shade of some trees by an old manoir, each is set for lunch with napkins embroidered with strawberries and bottles of flowers in shades red. There’s a seagrass pouf with a cushion at each place for us to sit on and we gather around the table to eat our picnic.

We’ve spent the last hour wandering the beautiful streets of Asnières-sur-Vègre, getting to see inside an ancient church in the midst of restoration, the village lavoir where the women used to come to wash clothes and gossip and the old forge, where Tim gets so excited by all the old tools and machines that we have to drag him away, our stomachs rumbling. By the pretty bridge over the river we collect our picnic baskets and make our way down flower lined streets to the picnic spot.

Our picnic baskets are full of glass jars, one for each course. Slices of salt-cured pork loin with crudités for apéros, smoked trout with herby fromage frais and sable crumbs for starters, stuffed spiced chicken breast with fondant potatoes and asparagus come next, then cheese and salad and finally a strawberry tiramisu. We stretch back on the grass as the accordion band play traditional French songs.

I look around and remind myself that these moments are important. It’s all too easy in our summer months to get caught up in the hustle and all there is to do. I spent a good part of last week feeling stressed that I was losing my Sunday afternoon off to get jobs done. But as I laugh and eat and enjoy time with friends I know that this little afternoon off, supporting Fred’s amazing business, was really what I needed.

Monday 2nd June

There’s something about elderflower that makes strawberries taste more strawberry, the two flavours melding together into one. I sprinkle sugar over quartered strawberries and douse them with elderflower cordial, leaving them to sit for an hour or so to create a beautiful deep pink syrup.

The mixer makes short work of the cream, whipping it to thick, pillowy peaks. I beat mascarpone with sugar and vanilla and then fold through the cream. In old glass yogurt pots I layer the syrupy, elderflower strawberries with the sweet, vanilla mascarpone cream, the pinky red syrup trickling through the layers. A simple pudding for a warm evening, a strawberry and elderflower fool. Next time I might add a biscuity layer for a little bit of crunch.

Tuesday 3rd June

I shriek and jump to my feet, the toad that just leapt into my lap falling to the floor with a flump. He hops into the grass about a foot away and then stops. We both freeze, staring at one another. My breath comes in short, sharp bursts, I shudder, remembering the brief feeling of his dry toady body on my bare leg.

I’m planting out the zinnias and must have accidentally disturbed Mister Toad from his cool, damp hole in the soil of the flower bed. He sits in the grass, beady orange eyes regarding me warily. For the next hour I work around him, both of us flinching each time one or the other of us moves.

Finally the zinnias are in the ground, watered and each one of the pots I’ve tossed on the grass as I planted out, collected up. Mister Toad quietly edges away to wriggle himself a new hole and I head back to the house to get clean and make grazing boards for our guests.

Wednesday 4th June

The rain starts to fall as I walk in the grey, early morning light. Fat drops of rain landing on earth that’s warm and dusty after a muggy night. There’s a sense of pressure releasing and the mineral tang of petrichor fills the air. I turn my face to the rain, accepting that I’m going to get wet anyway and head towards home.

The showers are scattered and brief, not enough to deter me from spending every available hour in the garden once my inside chores are done. I am determined to get everything planted out today, the last dahlias, the last cosmos, the sunflowers and the salvias.

I empty soil from the pots of plants that didn’t make it, clear the leaves of the faded ranunculus in the greenhouse and cut back the parsley to give the tomatoes space and light to grow.

Empty pots are stacked and tidied away, and the greenhouse finally starts to look presentable again. I even find a final hour to tidy up the back borders, handfuls of faded daffodil foliage squeaking as I pull them up, filling the wheelbarrow to bursting.

Sleep comes as soon as I crawl into bed, my body grateful for an evening off and an early night. My mind calm, finally happy to have planted everything out, to have ticked that job off my list so I can now turn my attention to deadheading the roses.

Thursday 5th June

With the meadow cut my morning walks are full of distractions. Three hares, one big, two little, playing together in the distance, scampering and darting about until they see us and stop right where they are, staying stock still until we move away, only running for cover once our backs are turned. The deer, leaping the fence and gracefully running across the grass, white bottoms flashing, and the grey heron taking flight, almost impossibly graceful given its long gangly legs and arching neck.

The rattle of my garden trolley bumping along the drive is almost loud enough to drown out the sound of the birdsong and the strumming of the crickets, but not quite. There’s a permanent buzzing hum now too, added to our summer soundtrack by the bees that fill the lime trees, busily gathering nectar from the blossoms while they last.

I’m cutting what is probably the last of the ranunculus today. The warm weather sending them over sooner than I’d have liked. The sweet peas are hitting their stride now, I pick handfuls in shades of blue, mauve, burgundy, cream and pink, burying my nose into the bunch to smell their heady scent.

From the bed outside the kitchen door I snip the longest stems of mint, I love mint in a posey with sweet peas, it might be my favourite combination of scents. The kitchen island is covered in little bud vases, each one destined for a different corner of the house. The last ranunculus and the first full harvest of sweet peas. I’m crossing my fingers that by next Monday something else will be in flower to fill the ranunculus gap.

Friday 6th June

I stand in the window of the gîte bedroom shaking a pillow into its case, peering out at the cherry tree beside the lake. For the first time in almost five years it’s full of cherries. Our first two summers here we had more cherries than we knew what to do with. Alain sending me up into his trees in a tractor bucket to pick them. For the last five years late frosts and hungry birds have had the lot. But this year there seems to be a bumper crop.

I still don’t trust the birds though. It’s a nervous waiting game, I’m watching and biding my time, checking everyday to see if the first blush of pink is deepening to red, waiting another day for it to deepen even more as the sugars rise and the fruit gets sweeter. Wondering all the time if I’m pushing my luck and the birds will clear the whole tree one morning before I get up.

I decide to pick as many of the ripest cherries on the branches I can reach, just as a security measure, just so I can have some in case the birds beat me to the rest. They’re sweet but tart too, ruby red and juicy, it takes me all of 10 minutes to fill a bowl. Tomorrow or Sunday they’ll be riper, redder, sweeter. I tell the boys and Tim that we’ll need to get ladders out and climb into the tree to pick all we can. I start sorting through cherry recipes in my mind.

Saturday 7th June

I run my knife around each cherry, prise the two sides open and ease out the stone. I have tried every method; a shop bought pitting machine, a chop stick and a beer bottle, various tools, but the simplest, easiest way is a sharp knife and the tips of my fingers.

Cherry juice runs over my hands, making the scratches from the roses I’ve just been pruning sting, turning the skin brown. My hands and nails are stained with cherry juice, it won’t come off no matter how hard I scrub. I will never be one of those people with neat hands. My hands are always plunged into washing up water, or covered in earth, scratched up by rose bushes or rough from cold and hard work. No amount of hand cream can keep them neat.

They’re hard working hands though, whisking up eggs and sugar for a clafoutis, chopping tomatoes and slicing courgettes, preparing the next meal for our guests, setting trays for tomorrow’s breakfast, washing dishes and finally sweeping the kitchen floor as Tim carries the warm pots of clafoutis out for pudding. Another busy week coming to an end.

Ps - thank you all so much for your kind, supportive and generally lovely comments, emails, notes and messages last week. They really meant a lot to us and went a long way to boosting morale.

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