Still days

A journal of château life - 29th June - 5th July 2025

Still days - audio version

Sunday 29th June

It feels like a day for ice cream, the heat oozing through every room, the air still and thick. Definitely a day for ice cream, but we don’t have any and it’s Sunday, in rural France and everything is closed.

Sundays are still sleepy here, the morning market in Le Mans open and busy until lunchtime and then everyone heads home to spend time with family. It’s a part of living here that I love, the resistance to Sunday openings makes sense to me, except when it’s a day for ice cream.

You learn quickly though in the countryside to keep your cupboards well stocked and I have cream, condensed milk and vanilla, all I need really to make a quick no-churn ice cream. I drape a tea towel over the mixer as it whirrs, the cream and condensed milk splashing up and out of the sides of the bowl until it gradually starts to thicken. Once it’s as thick and dense as clotted cream I scrape it into a plastic box and tuck it into the freezer for a few hours.

There are three flat peaches in the fruit bowl, blushed pink and just on the verge of over-ripeness, I can smell them each time I walk past. I slice them up and sprinkle them with a little sugar and leave them for a while to draw out their juices and make a syrup.

Another scattering of sugar goes over some frozen raspberries, which slowly defrost into a deep red pulp. I layer the peaches and the raspberries in champagne coupes and scoop out soft mounds of the ice cream, which isn’t quite ice cream, but more of a creamy parfait. It does the job though on a hot summer Sunday when everything is closed, making perfect Peach Melba sundaes to keep us cool.

Monday 30th June

I’m in the garden just after first light, the sun rising golden behind the trees. It’s already 20 degrees and the temperature is climbing fast. By mid-afternoon the forecast promises that it will be 39c.

I cut snapdragons and cosmos and water the sunflowers, which aren’t in an irrigated bed, but are holding court in the old raspberry patch while it rests. The scabious are just about to burst and I pick a few of the first white ones for my buckets.

What larkspur that survived the slugs is beginning to flower, a scant, scraggly crop, but my goodness I love the elegant frothy spears of it. I wish I had a whole bed full, but I’ll make the most of what little I have.

There are bees sleeping in the dahlias, tucked up in the ruffled hearts of the Totally Tangerines, yet to be woken by the sunrise. I don’t cut those flowers, leaving the bees to their lie-in.

Once full, I leave my buckets in the cool gloom of the garden workshop, letting the flowers drink and recover for a few hours while we make breakfast, strip beds and wash towels.

The early morning pick was a good idea because by 11.30am, when I have time to go and collect my flowers, the heat makes me gasp, as if it’s pulling the breath from my body just to make a breeze.

Nothing moves, the air, the trees, everything is still and sluggish. Even the flies and butterflies seem to be flying in slow motion, energy drained by the heat. The house is hidden behind her shutters, almost cowering into the shade of the trees.

We’re doing all we can to keep the house cool, but once the temperatures outside reach 40 degrees it’s difficult. This is a good 10-15 degrees hotter than our usual summer temperatures and the house and our bodies aren’t equipped to cope with it. We rest in the dark all afternoon, gathering our energy for a hot evening in the kitchen cooking for our guests.

Tuesday 1st July

There is no respite from the heat, the nights are tropical, the temperature not dropping below 22 degrees. No matter what I do I cannot get cool. I turn my pillow over time and again, my frustration rising as I watch the hours tick by in the darkness.

The still air hangs heavily over everything and I drag my body through it as I change beds and clean rooms. I wonder how anyone manages to live in places where the 38 degrees is normal? The redheaded English woman in me is finding it unbearable.

I heft buckets of water to the hydrangeas outside the boot room door, water sloshing down my legs and over my feet, hoping the extra water will help them survive the punishing heat and stop them wilting quite so much. This is all I can manage and I go back inside to hide from the sun, waiting until the very last moment to move again.

Picture courtesy of Erin - taken by JB, because he has the longest arms and can get us all in.

Wednesday 2nd July

We sit at a table on a high roof top, looking across the river at the old, imposing château fort in Angers. We have a day off; no bed making, no cooking. We’re out for lunch, meeting Erin and JB halfway between our two homes for a mid-season catch-up.

I hardly pay attention to the food as we talk and swop tales of our summer’s so far. The time passes quickly, a warm breeze blowing and keeping us cool under the shade of huge parasols.

After a long lunch we wander through Angers, dragged to the English sweet shop by the boys who are desperate for proper sweets, sold from jars by the gram.

It’s hard to leave, our catch-up not even half finished, but we all have work to-do and next guests to prepare for. We hug goodbye and promise to catch up again in the shorter, quieter days of the autumn

Thursday 3rd July

I throw open every window, letting the cool northerly breeze twist through each room, chasing out the heat of the last week. I feel my energy levels and my spirits rise with each degree the temperature drops. Tim and Dale (who has been stranded here for a few days due to a broken down car) laugh at me as I jump and clap with excitement at not being hot.

In the cutting garden there are sunflowers and cosmos, snapdragons and dahlias, in more shades than just orange. Filling my vases feels easy and abundant for the first time in weeks.

Everything feels good today, the air doesn’t drag at me as I walk, every room is fresh and cool, I can cut parsley and pull chives for dinner without feeling my skin prickle under the sun’s glare and kitchen stays comfortable as I cook.

Our guests arrive in beautiful old cars for the Le Mans Classic weekend, no air conditioning or sat navs, just wind-down-windows and maps. They relax in the garden as I chop and baste, their laughter carrying into the kitchen on a still-cool breeze.

Friday 4th July

I scatter slices of sweet tomatoes and ripe, juicy peaches with blue borage flowers, tucking basil leaves in between the fruit. Tim is whisking up a batter of flour, baking powder and sparkling water, then dunking in battens of courgettes and frying them until golden.

I chop mint, chives and parsley and stir them through yogurt, creme fraîche and a little mashed Brillat Savarin cheese. The sweet sharp tang of lemon zest rises into the air as I grate it finely and add it to the sauce with some finely chopped shallot and a splash of cider vinegar.

Our guests are busy at the racetrack so we have the evening to ourselves. We dunk the crispy courgette fritters in the creamy herby sauce and mop up the juices of the salad with fresh baguette, talking all the while about next year’s retreats and calendar dates.

Saturday 5th July

My bare shins press against the rungs of the ladder as I reach up to snip the arching stems of the New Dawn rose at the back of the house. I’m making the most of the overcast skies to finally clear up the back borders a little. The sun is trying to get me though, glaring through the cloud as it thins and shifts.

A mechanical rumble hums in the distance, the beeping of reversing tractors, the harvest is beginning. The fields are full of farmers and our tiny country roads are taken over by the impossibly huge combines who squeeze us into ditches to get by.

The swaying, golden fields of wheat are quickly turned into neat rows of pale yellow straw, drying in the sun ready for baling. Fields empty and open again, the summer moving on. The maize is still standing tall though, lined up like an army of glossy green soldiers, imposing and almost impenetrable - unless you’re a boar. The boar have been battering the ranks, taking out lone stems to feast on the ripening corn, leaving behind trampled patches of maize.

I work on to the sound of the combines, pulling weeds and cutting back spent stems, hoping to encourage more flowers for the second half of our summer, urging the plants to fill out and close the gaps. The soil is dry and warm in my hands, the sun on my back, but it’s just cool enough to work on into the afternoon, a full day outside, working in the garden in the fresh air, it’s been a while and I’m so grateful for it.

PS - Tilly has made a great recovery - she was let out slightly early from here medical rest because we felt her spirits were getting a little too low. She was so happy to be outside and I’m sure her cut healed faster in the fresh air. She thanks you all for your kind thoughts and good wishes.

And a quick technical note - a few of you have been in touch recently to say that your newsletter hasn’t arrived. I’ve spoken to Substack about it (they provide all the technical side of this newsletter) and this could be for a few reasons. The first step is to check your junk mail because it might have made its way in there. If you still don’t have it it might be that your email server has “dropped” the email. This means that it’s decided that it’s a spammy message and it just deletes it from your mailbox. To stop this happening you can try adding the newsletter to your favourites or your safe sender list - how to do this depends on your email provider. Finally if you’re ever missing an issue you can always find them on the Between Homepage - www.rebeccaljones.substack.com. I hope that helps.

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