Rose tinted

A journal of château life - 11th-17th May 2025

Rose tinted - audio version

Sunday 11th May

Monty freezes, back straight, one front paw raised, nose in the air, tail stiff, the end curled upwards, his hunting pose. The hare stands on his back legs, front feet held in front of him, ears straight, nose also in the air, a boxing stance. We all stare at one another. “Don’t you dare,” I breathe at Monty when he glances back at me. Nobody moves, we all just look at one another for what must have been mere seconds but felt like forever. I can see the breeze ruffling the thick, glossy, dun-coloured coat of the hare, see his ears twitch with indecision, he’s beautiful, wild, proud, almost majestic. Then he turns dismissively, lopping casually away from us, wriggling under the fence to disappear into the buttercups.

In disbelief, one eyebrow raised, Monty glances at me again, as if to say “I didn’t even get a chance to chase it.” I pull a treat from my pocket and thank him for listening, for once. He sets off sniffing, looking for a second chance.

The morning is bright, the sun rising gold over the meadows, the cows back in their field, quietly chewing the cud. But the clouds are bubbling up on the horizon, lumpy shades of grey, bringing with them showers that scatter themselves through the day.

I listen to the rain drum on the greenhouse roof as I pot on zinnias and cosmos, giving them some fresh soil and more space to grow on under cover for a couple more weeks until it’s time to harden them off and plant them out. Not long now.

Monday 12th May

These early days of the season, when school runs and the business collide, are long ones. It’s still dark as I tiptoe downstairs at 5.40am, the whole house asleep, the only time of day I can squeeze in some time to exercise is this 45 minutes before walking Rufus down the drive to his lift to the station to catch the early train to school.

The sun is rising as we walk, the morning cool and fresh, the nightingale still the loudest bird singing at the edge of the woods. This walk does double duty, getting Monty outside to stretch his legs too.

Back home again there’s just time to shower, get dressed and quickly make some pancakes for Laurie’s breakfast before he and Tim are out the door, one to the tiny station in the village to get the train to school, the other to the bakery a few villages away for fresh bread and croissants.

I have a moment now to catch my breath, to soak up a little peace as I carry my breakfast trays back-and-forth between kitchen and salon, setting the tables for our guests while they’re still asleep. The only sounds are the birds singing, the breeze in the trees and a little French jazz playing softly in the background.

It’s only 8.30am. Tim is back with bread still warm from the bakers, and buttery, flaky croissants. The coffee machine whirs and we bustle to-and-fro with teas and coffees, grabbing breakfast for ourselves in between.

The day goes on like this as we wave off our guests, clean rooms, harvest flowers, shop for food, sweep floors, and wash towels. We grab a late lunch at 2pm and then finally a moment to rest, perhaps an hour or so, before we’re lighting candles, opening the doors and welcoming our next guests.

I make my way back down the drive to fetch the boys from the station, peering through the trees, searching for a glimpse of another car, a flash of sun on a windscreen, hoping not to meet our guests coming the other way so I have to reverse all the way back to let them through.

We gather around the kitchen table to eat together as a family at 6pm, a lean half an hour to catch up, to check-in and make sure everyone is alright. By 6.30pm I’m preparing dinner again, this time for our guests. I cook and Tim serves, conversations slipped in between courses, each of us busy with our own allotted tasks.

Once the last pudding is plated up and the kitchen clean, I quietly make my way through the house, closing shutters and lighting lamps and candles so our guests can make their way to bed. By 10pm I’m usually in bed, leaving Tim to clear the last of the plates and glasses, already drifting off to sleep, ready to get up and do it all again tomorrow.

Tuesday 13th May

With a squeak the old iron mechanism on the window twists, the bar that runs from top to bottom lifting and dropping so I can swing the window open towards me. Warm sunshine floods into the room, the breeze flows in, sweeping the stale, sleepy air out of the open door at the other side.

I strip sheets, pulling off pillow cases and duvet covers, folding them the right way out before stuffing them until the huge laundry sacks. The morning sun is warming the Constance Spry Roses that scramble over the cellar steps outside the Meadow Suite window, their scent slips into the room on the breeze, sweet and floral, a citrusy note, a hint of musk too, the perfect rose perfume.

I’m distracted from my work by the scent, can’t resist leaning out of the window for a proper sniff, burying my nose in the velvety petals, snagging the skin on my finger on a thorny barb on the back of a leaf. A reminder to get back to work, shuffling pillows into fresh white pillow cases, shaking the duvet straight, smoothing the fitted sheet. One bed done, three more to go.

Wednesday 14th May

I love daffodils but waiting for their foliage to die back is frustrating. The front borders have enough of a tumble of roses and viburnum to hide the fading leaves, but at the back of the house the salvias are yet to get into their stride, it’s still too early to plant out the cosmos to fill some of the gaps and the daffodil foliage seems slow to fade.

I wade through the borders, clearing faded leaves and pulling up weeds, trying to gather straggly daffodil leaves into neater piles to tidy things up a bit. I plant out some leftover nigella and scabious plants that didn’t fit in the cutting garden beds, hoping they’ll thrive here and fill some space.

The Lighter Shade of Pale rose already needs deadheading. Rather than trample through the borders I open the window under the stairs and snip the faded flowers from there, filling a bucket with the pale, wrinkled petals of the spent roses. While I’m under the stairs I tidy the shop, setting aside my bucket to straighten the rows of candles and diffuser, restock the baskets of linens and plump the new cushions.

Thursday 15th May

François is cutting the meadow for hay, I can hear the distant rumble of the tractor as it travels back and forth all morning. This spell of warm, dry weather is perfect for hay making, but it means no more sea of buttercups rippling in the breeze. I feel sad to think that I’ll have to wait until next year now to see them again, but grateful that I got to see them one last time this morning, the rising sun making them glow under a blue sky full of galleons of cloud.

As the tractor rumbles. I’m in the kitchen making granola, the cinnamony smell of baked oats filling the room. There are nine little glass pots lined up on the kitchen island, ready for me to press in some buttery biscuit crumbs to make the bases for some blackcurrant cheesecake pots for tonight’s pudding. A swirl of sweetened, vanilla and lemon scented cream cheese on top and a layer of homemade blackcurrant jam to finish them off.

There were a few flowers left over from this morning’s harvest and once the cheesecakes are chilling in the fridge I gather them together in an old creamware pot. A few ranunculus, some chive flowers and some mint, the last scraps of the greenhouse ranunculus crop, the warm weather sending them over prematurely. A little vase of flowers for the kitchen table.

Friday 16th May

The days are warm, but the evenings are cool, so we drape folded blankets over the backs of the chairs on the terrace, just in case our guests feel chilly as they eat. Everyone is always keen to eat outside, the tables lined up under the festoon lights, surrounded by the roses that are climbing all over the house.

The back terrace bakes in the sun all day; the old granite steps and gravel floor soaking up the heat and holding onto it long after the sun dips behind the house, keeping the terrace a few degrees warmer each evening. The cats stretch themselves lazily over the steps while our guests eat, making the most of this last bit of heat.

It’s been a long day, Friday is always busy, but more so this week with Nicky away, a full gîte changeover on top of the rooms in the house kept Tim and I out of mischief today. I fold the last load of towels to the burble of voices on the terrace, my feet throbbing as I climb the stairs to bed, ready to sink into sleep.

Saturday 17th May

The meadow looks bigger now that it’s been shorn, the cut grasses and flowers bleaching in the sun, the sweet sugary scent of hay rising from the field. The weather looks set to be dry until the middle of next week, so there should be plenty of time to get it in.

I stop on the terrace to stare at the roses. All those weeks of work on cold winter days, my fingers and toes numb, my hands scratched, stiff and sore, they’re all worth it for this moment. This fleeting few days when all the buds burst at once and the terrace is covered in flowers. It’s hard to tear myself away, but I can’t linger for long, there are rooms to clean, and I have a hankering for cake.

Once my chores are done, I set the mixer whirring, whipping up butter and sugar until they’re pale and creamy, cracking in eggs one at a time, scattering in a little flour between the second and third egg to make sure the batter doesn’t split. The last of the flour brings it all together and I stir through some freshly grated lemon zest.

While it bakes I mix together lemon juice, sugar and elderflower cordial to drizzle over the hot cake. Waiting for it to cool is the hardest part, but the sweet, sharp treat is worth the wait, eaten as we wait for our next guests to arrive, licking crumbs from our fingers as the car pulls up.

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