Through the rain

A journal of château life - 8th-14th February 2026

Through the rain – audio version

Sunday 8th February

Kirsty and Dale sit on the back step in the sunshine, hands wrapped around hot mugs, soaking up a rare moment of warmth. It’s a mild, clear day, the sun dipping in and out behind a veil of thin clouds, with patches of blue in between.

We’ve all been working outside; Tim and Dale cutting logs, the roar of the chainsaw boring though the birdsong, Kirsty and Laurie down the avenues collecting fallen twigs and branches for kindling, taking turns to drive the tractor, and me and my wheelbarrow trundling between the shrubs, tidying and pruning.

Each trip to the farmyard compost heap or the kindling pile is boggy, the mud slipping and sliding underfoot, a reminder that this gentle, mild day is a momentary pause in a wet winter. We bask in the light and warmth with smiles on our faces for a moment, knowing that it won’t last for long. Winter will be back again, but this hint of spring is just what we all need.

Monday 9th February

The sun is ablaze in a sliver of sky beneath the clouds, burning a liquid red like the heart of a fire, fading out into pinks and mauves, its heat quenched by a stratus of grey. It’s been a while since we’ve been treated to a sunrise and this is a special kind. One of those momentary sunrises that lasts only until it’s swallowed by the clouds, the sunlight smothered by another grey day. A treat for the early risers.

Before long it’s raining again. It rains as I drive Kirsty to the station to catch her train, making the roads slick and dark. It rains as I run errands and buy more paint for the everlasting radiators, pours as I run from the car and into the fabric shop, the door slamming behind me in a scouring gust of wind.

The women in the fabric shop are formidable, they walk around swinging metre sticks with sharp scissors in leather holsters at their hips. Tape measures are draped around their necks and there seems to be some special kind of queuing system which involves them shouting out “Madame Aubert”, “Madame Roche”. They never shout out “Madame Jones” because I can’t for the life of me work out how to get on their list.

It doesn’t much matter, because although I wander around the rows and rows of fabric, lifting rolls and bolts, rubbing my finger tips over cottons, linens, silks and velvets, I can’t bring myself to like any of them. Nothing calls out to me as perfect for the sitting room. I don’t love anything enough to try and approach one of these metre-stick-wielding women. I leave empty handed, going back out into the rain, disappointed that I still can’t picture the sitting room well enough to make a choice.

Tuesday 10th February

Across the inky dark of the garden comes a yip, a momentary silence and then an answering hoooo hoooo; a pair of tawny owls having a pre-dawn chat. I lie in the dark, wide awake, wandering what they’re talking about on this rainy morning.

The rain is persistent, falling onto the punch drunk earth, which really cannot take anymore to drink. With each shower the puddles deepen, merging into ponds, rainwater oozing from the ground with every muddy footstep.

I stare out at the grey, wet morning, the trees bending in a gusty gale barrelling across the fields, and feel very grateful that there’s no time for gardening; I have another busy round of errands and appointments ahead of me.

I spend a good amount of time wandering the rows of the hardware store with Tim’s detailed list of wooden mouldings and brass screws of very specific sizing. It makes my head hurt trying to fathom one from the other, the differences between them so very slight. I scan the rows over and over, finally landing on the right box.

I can leave now with my wayward trolley piled with over long pieces of wood that flex and bounce as I push it through the puddle filled car park. I’m very pleased that we have a long car and that everything fits in easily so I don’t have to struggle with car jenga as the rain soaks through my coat.

My afternoon treat is more radiator painting, the first coat on the third and final one, the end of this job is inching closer, finally. In the cold, damp weather and heavy grey days, the paint takes an age to dry, the time between coats drawn out. Hopefully by the end of the week though, this job will be done.

Wednesday 11th February

My last French lesson of the winter. The classes have flown by this year, my brain scrambling to keep up with tenses and linguistic tricks. Virginie and I have laughed a lot, and I’ll miss our Wednesday morning chats. I find now that I can understand almost all of what people are saying to me, that I can read French without my mind translating every word. I just need more opportunities to practice speaking.

Everyday life and activities like shopping and doctor’s appointments are easier. The stumbling block is my own shyness in any language. My hatred for small talk with strangers or loose acquaintances makes it hard for me whether I’m speaking English or French. It makes me reluctant to seek out opportunities to talk. I still clam up, my brain happily using the excuse that I’m speaking my second language to make its churn rate even slower. Once I settle in I know I get my ear attuned, I can relax, I can chat, even if I mix up my passé composé and my imparfait.

My lesson done I can’t settle to anything for the rest of the day, Tim is the same, both of us feeling distracted. At 4.30pm we give up, light the fire and give ourselves a bit of time off to do nothing without guilt. We curl up on the sofa together and watch the fire crackle, eating the last of the Christmas chocolates.

Writing this journal takes time, good time, but a lot of it. It’s tricky sometimes to put pen to paper in amongst everything, to make notes as I go about my day so I don’t forget. What keeps me going is knowing how much it means to so many of you to have my journal drop into your inbox every week. I’ve had some really lovely messages recently and I truly appreciate them. If you don’t already have this journal emailed to you each week you can sign up to receive it below, it’s free. A paid subscription gets you all the extra bits and contributes to securing the future of Château de la Ruche.

Ps - paid subs I’m hoping to get the next sitting room update video out to you in the next week or so.

Thursday 12th February

Stripes of light shimmer up the trunks of the trees as I make my way down the drive. The sky is still a nighttime black and the car headlights reflect up off the puddles and rain-filled pot holes, tattooing the tree trunks with eerie light.

All our hard work filling holes and trying to repair the surface of the drive has been washed away by the almost ceaseless rain of the last few weeks. The odd dry day here and there has not been enough to allow the water to drain away and now the whole kilometre long length of the drive is peppered and pocked with holes that make the car shudder and tilt. It has not been good for morale.

I dab the breaks as a deer leaps through the barbed meadow fence and onto the drive, a white ghost in the dark, its sudden arrival making my heart jolt. In an instant it’s gone, so fast that I question if it was really there, leaping away into the woods, swallowed by the blackness between the trees.

Home again, in the warmth of the kitchen I realise that the weight of stress and anxiety that’s been lying heavy on me for the last few days has been unnecessary. The pressure I was feeling to find the finishing touches for the sitting room before we’ve even got paint on the walls is all manufactured.

I’ve been struggling to make decisions because I still can’t picture the finer details room. We’re steadily working our way through the jobs, Tim painstakingly recreating panelling piece-by-piece, me filling and sanding walls and painting radiators, but we’re still quite a long way off the finishing touches.

I realise on this dark, rainy morning that it’s the filming that’s making me panic. The regular emails and messages asking what’s next, are you nearly finished, when can we film a reveal? It’s making us rush, nudging us to cut corners, pushing us to work to a timeline that isn’t our own.

It all suddenly feels clear and I send an email asking to cancel our next filming day; the cameras can come back when we’re actually ready to do something new. We can film the reveal when we’re ready to film it, when I’ve had time to paint the walls and see the new sofas in place so that I can choose fabric I really love and not waste money on finishing touches I don’t really need to find.

I don’t want to make a decision in a panic. This is the first room we have done just for us, the first room to help us really feel at home here after eight long years and I want to love what we create for us, not for the TV. When I press send the pressure lifts almost immediately, the heavy weight in my chest melting away. I take a deep breath and get on with my day.

Friday 13th February

Plaster dust tickles my nose, making me sneeze. It fills my hair and my eyebrows (when will I learn to wear a headscarf?), covers my clothes, clings to my skin. My arms ache from the repetitive circling of the sanding pad, my hands constantly feeling for the slightest ridge or pockmark in Tim’s plaster joints.

Sanding is one of my most hated jobs. But it’s the chore that stands between me and the paint I’m so desperate to get on the walls. Even just getting a mist coat on will feel like huge progress. Tim is making his way around the room, building the main structure of the panelling first, finally hiding the last ugly bits of old wall, then he’ll go back and add in all the mouldings and twiddly bits later.

The table saw whirs as Tim cuts piece after piece of board to build up each panel. I climb up and down my ladder, filling, sanding, filling again. Now the pressure of filming has been released our energy seems to have returned, we’re working to our own deadlines again and it feels so much better.

Saturday 14th February

Carefully I search for the base of the anemone stem between the frill of green leaves. I snip as close to the base as I can, trying not to nip any of the emerging buds. With the anemones bunched in my hand I leave the greenhouse to search the flower beds for hellebores to cut too. The rosemary is just coming into flower, little blue trumpets peppering the stems, I add it to my bunch and find a little viburnum tinus that hasn’t yet gone over, its puffs of white starry flowers perfect for this little February garden gather.

I fill a little cream and blue jug with water and quickly arrange the flowers, slitting the stems of the hellebores in the hopes that they’ll last as long as the anemones. It makes me happy that even in February I can fill a vase with flowers from garden, a reminder that all the hard work is worth it.

I’ve been in the garden all day, pruning the roses by the lake, a cold northerly breeze sweeping across the water to pinch at my cheeks. These roses have struggled a little the last few summers so I cut them back hard, thinning their stems out in the hopes of giving them a boost.

This keen northerly wind has kept the rain away, letting the garden dry out a little, giving the sun a chance to come out of hiding. I down tools and take one last walk around the woods with Monty. Tim is on his way home from a day away, returning one of many favours we owe Dale and helping him plumb in new hot water tank. I haul in the logs for the Rayburn and light the log burner so we can sit down after another busy week.

PS - don’t let these pictures deceive you - the rain has been almost constant, but who wants to look at rainy pictures? Most of these were taken in the brief sunny spells that I’ve been clinging onto inbetween all the wet greyness.

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