Sunday 8th September
Margot comes trotting across the cow meadow, meowing at me persistently, climbing up into my arms and onto my shoulder. We haven’t seen her since Friday morning, she’s been off on one of her jaunts, but now it seems she’s home again, hollow-bellied and ready for some fuss. We half-walk, half-cuddle our way home to a bowlful of food, and then she’s off again, outside into the wild.
After breakfast and chores I’m torn between tiredness and a need to garden. In truth I’m bored of trying to rest, fed up of listening to my weary body and part of me wonders if I might be better served by ploughing onwards and getting some of the niggling jobs done. Ticking some things off the list and spending the day in the fresh air, even if it rains. I want to be the sort of tired that comes from a day in the garden.
It’s hard to know where to start, there are so many things that need doing. I clear weeds from some of the cutting garden beds; purslane, potentilla, and field bindweed, reaching between the flower stalks, clearing the earth underneath. I deadhead and then pick flowers for tomorrow, filling my buckets today because Nicki is away this week and I need to save time in the morning.
By mid-afternoon it’s raining, I pull on my waterproof coat, tucking my hair into the hood and start filling the wheelbarrow with the worst of the weeds from the back terrace. I’m grateful that stormy weather has hidden many of them with a scattering of fallen leaves.
I work on through the showers until the late afternoon, until it’s time to go inside and make a crumble from the little harvest of blue-bloomed quetsche plums I picked from my tree this morning. It’s a beautiful crumble, the plums oozing a deep burgundy syrup over the sides of the dish, we eat it with custard, curled up on the sofa as the garden goes dark outside.
Monday 9th September
Tim leaves after breakfast, bundling bags of laundry into the car, the shopping list in his pocket. The guests are out for the day, the boys are at school, Nicki is away and I realise that this is the first time in months that I’ve been by myself. There’s no one in the house, just me. I breathe in the silence, the uninterrupted quiet of being alone after so long. It feels wonderful and strange all at once.
I move from room-to-room, humming to myself, making beds, clearing cups and saucers, changing sheets and towels, working methodically through every task. Rooms first, then flowers, filling each vase with the stems I picked yesterday.
The afternoon is cold, cold enough for Tim to turn the heating on in the guest side of the house and for us to find the jumpers and socks that we haven’t worn in months. I fill a hot water bottle for Penny and snuggle her up on the kitchen bench, her achy joints eased by the heat. We’re hoping this cold snap will be brief, we don’t usually light the Rayburn until the end of October at the earliest, putting off hauling logs and sweeping chimneys for as long as we can.
Tuesday 10th September
I leap from the bed, my heart pounding. It’s 7.30am, I should have been up well over an hour or so ago. I never sleep late, rarely sleep past half past six. I never use an alarm clock, my body is usually reliable, waking up just before I need to get up, whatever time that might be. But not today, it’s 7.30am, I haven’t walked the dog or had a shower. Within 10 minutes I’m washed and dressed and in the kitchen, heart still pounding, body still heavy with sleep, getting breakfast ready for the guests, jostling the boys to get ready for school (Rufus luckily has a late start today and still has time to catch his train) and apologising to the dog for his missed walk. A frantic start to the day, not how I like to begin.
But the sun is back, golden and beautiful, slanting through the trees, the air chill and gently hazy. I put off my chores after breakfast and walk Monty instead, making the most of the sunshine while it’s here; the bed making can wait until I get back.
I stand at the edge of the woods, where the fields open out, the wind blowing in my hair, my eyes closed, letting the sunlight stream through my eyelids, my arms outstretched. I hear the swallows calling and blink my eyes open, they’re swirling all around me, as if I’ve conjured them from the sky. A whirling tempest of birds, swooping and diving, creamy white bellies flashing, chattering and chasing one another in an endless game of tag around and around.
Brian is at my feet, finally catching up after stopping so many times to search for birds and mice in the hedgerows. He meows impatiently, turning towards the woods, as if telling me it’s time to get on. We trudge back along the woodland paths, back to the house and the chores. The sunlight catching in the cobwebs on the stairs, each one I sweep away seemingly replaced by two more, the spiders doing their best work at this time of year, chased inside by the harvest and the turn in the weather.
Wednesday 11th September
We spent our first night in the house seven years ago today. Just Tim and I, flying over to pick up the keys and sign the final paperwork. We camped in the house that night, in the unfamiliar rooms that were to be our home, struggling to grasp just what on earth we were doing. Torn between excitement and terror, truly having no idea how moving to another country, taking on this house and starting our own business would change us. Seven years on and we’re still trying to work it all out. I still have days where I wonder what on earth we’re doing, and I probably always will.
Today though I spend my afternoon off in the garden. Clearing the Nigella bed, pulling up the browned stems, splitting open the papery stars and spilling their seeds all over the surface of the bed for next year. Direct sowing seems to work best for my Nigella.
Brian is helping, diving in and out of the stems, attacking my hands as I work, hiding behind piles of spent Nigella to pounce on me as I pass. The sun is warm, but the wind is cool enough to keep me in my jumper. I find Margot in my potting tray, curled up on the warm soil, basking in the heat of the greenhouse, watching me through half-closed eyes as I pick tomatoes. Oh to be a cat.
Thursday 12th September
There are few meals that don’t start with tomatoes at this time of year. This morning I toast a piece of yesterday’s baguette until the edges are charred golden. One half is gently rubbed with a cut clove of garlic and piled with diced greenhouse tomato, sprinkled with salt, drizzled with olive oil and the tiniest smidge of honey. The other half is buttered and topped with courgette scrambled eggs, spiked with a pinch of dried chilli flakes and a scraping of lemon zest.
We need a hearty breakfast because we rarely get lunch before 2pm. The morning is filled with flowers and bed making, every bed in the house changed, fresh sheets, fresh towels, bags and bags of laundry piled by the front door.
My afternoon disappears behind the ironing board, the hot steam filling the kitchen and warming up a cold afternoon. Through the misted old windows as I work, I watch showers of un-forecast rain blow in and sweep across the garden, scant snatches of sunshine in between, grateful to be inside where it’s warm and dry. I sigh, dinner will be in the salon again tonight, it’s far too chilly for our guests to be on the terrace.
Friday 13th September
It always amazes me how quickly the nights draw in once they start. The darkness of the early school run walk is complete now, not a hint of light on the horizon, the stars still strewn across the sky, a head torch definitely needed.
I’ve given up closing the shutters in our bedroom at night, there’s no morning sun to wake me, I get up well before her most days now. I like to lie in bed and see the stars on clear nights, the whole galaxy spread out and unfathomable before me. The intensity of the darkness here is one of the things I love most, our trees shielding us from what distant light pollution there is. We’re heading towards a full harvest moon, each night the belly of the moon grows a little thicker, a little brighter in the sky.
I walk back down the drive everyday now. Woodland walks have to wait until the sun comes up, I’m just not brave enough to walk the familiar paths in the dark. As I turn the last corner of the drive towards the house the sky is just beginning to lighten, the blackness smudging into the grey of first light.
I light the candles in the salon, switch on the lamps, making everywhere cosy for our guests. Today is a busy day, gîte changeover day, made so much easier by lovely guests who leave everywhere clean and tidy and we’re so grateful. The sun is shining so I throw open the windows as I change sheets and fold fresh towels, letting the fresh autumn air blow in while I smooth sheets and arrange pillows.
Tim is on bathroom duty and I choose the kitchen clean over hoovering and mopping floors. Soon every job is done, each room clean and ready to welcome this week’s guests. There’s just time for a late lunch and a quiet siesta before school runs and guest arrivals and the whole cycle starts again.
Saturday 14th September
I slice each croissant open and spread the inside with the almond frangipane. Lids closed again and each one is brushed with an amaretto soused sugar syrup and scattered with flaked almonds. I line them up on a tray lined with baking paper and tuck them in the freezer. Once they’re frozen I bag them up, ready to be baked for our guests on the mornings our little bakery have their well deserved rest.
People often ask why Tim bothers to drive to the bakery each day? They wonder why we don’t use the bake-your-own baguettes and pastries from the supermarket to save time and maybe money? There’s no doubt our croissant bill is large, but it’s important to us to support other local businesses, important too, to serve the best bread and pastries we can find. We love our little bakery, admire their hard won skills and wonder how on earth they cope with the rigours and hours of bakery life? It’s worth the trip every morning to support them, and to have that scent of fresh baked bread and pastries fill the salon at breakfast time .
A batch of almond croissants made, I make lemony cheesecake pots for tonight’s pudding, each one topped with blackcurrant jam. I harvest more tomatoes and an armful of basil for tomato and mozzarella salads, its liquorice scent powerful as I pick.
There are butterflies everywhere in the cutting garden now, feasting on flower nectar and being chased by the cats. I wonder how long this bright cold snap will last, keeping my fingers crossed that the days stay warm enough to help the flowers survive the cool nights. A few more warm weeks would be nice, before autumn sets in properly and the slow season begins.
Previous posts you might have missed…
Just a thank you for sourcing your bread and croissants locally instead of serving those that are mass produced! I'm headed to my own favorite bakery today to meet a friend and pick up some croissant and other goodies 😋 I'll be thinking of your lucky guests as I eat them 😂
Dear Rebecca, Fall is a gorgeous time of year. Thank you for the picture of Penny. She is a beautiful cat. Her colors are incredibly stunning. I am glad Margot has come back home again. She is a wanderer! Do all of your animals have chips put in them? The vet does that and it has their name and address on it so if they get lost and are taken to a veterinarian they can easily find out to whom they belong. I don’t remember reading about Brian. Is he a newer cat? Lucky you to have three cats and a dog. They are such good company. The croissants make my mouth water as Marzipan is one of my favorite sweets and the almond paste must be similar. In fact, you have given me a good idea for breakfast this morning. Enjoy your week. Love, Diana