My French Fancy

After a month-long absence, we’ve returned to find spring in full swing in Normandy. The birds are singing relentlessly and buds are popping up everywhere. One of my favourite sights is the bluebells in the woods behind the house. From a distance, they look like a deep violet-blue carpet (though it wouldn’t look so good in your living room!). Did you know that the drooping, bell-shaped blossoms of the bluebell have long been celebrated as symbols of fresh starts and personal renewal? I suspect that after our cruise, my liver could use just such a renewal. Apparently, we drank the ship dry of rosé— not out of gluttony but simply making sure we were getting our money’s worth. I do so hate waste. We have a very old cherry tree that looks lifeless most of the time but blossoms in the spring. Over the winter, it started to lean precariously and we watched nervously for any new signs of life. I had to wrestle the chainsaw out of Tim’s grip—he’s always itching to reduce things to firewood but...

          Oh, the intoxicating chaos of renovating an old property, whose walls whisper stories from generations long gone! Well, the earliest records we have show someone applied to convert it into a mill back in 1874 so it’s fairly old.  Finders keepers  Over the past five years Tim and I have earnestly thrown away more unwanted items out of the window than I ever imagined possible. Unlike Dick and Angel on Escape to the Chateau, we haven’t unearthed any hand-printed wallpaper, our haul has included: An orange bidet—because really, who in their right mind wants that in their bathroom? Musty, decrepit wardrobes whose mouldy interiors laughed mockingly at every cleaner we tried on them.   A kitchen that deserved its own health warning: the previous owner proudly demonstrated a hidden crumb-catcher drawer designed to trap baguette scraps. Ingenious? hardly! I can live without a drawer ...

  Wine woes Our plumber Yves recently visited Athens. When I inquired about his trip his face broke into a big smile. "Beautiful city," he said, though he lamented the crush of camera-wielding tourists and café prices along the Plaka. But when I mentioned Greek wine, his entire demeanour transformed, his shoulders slumped as if beneath an invisible weight, he exhaled a deep sigh, shook his head with the gravity of a man who had witnessed something truly tragic and muttered "catastrophe, never again." The French approach their wine with a reverence bordering on religious devotion; you'll never catch a Parisian gulping a vintage Bordeaux. Instead, they savour each drop with deliberate patience, allowing it to unfold on their palates and almost always alongside a three-course meal. I've cautioned readers previously, but I would not advise arriving at a French host's doorstep clutching a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon, as they've probably spent conside...

                                                     Not so much fun: It’s been a busy here with the new heating system going in and a fresh roof being fitted on the out-building. I’ve spent my days brewing endless cups of coffee while watching our bank balance shrink with every invoice—or “devis,” as the French say—that lands on the kitchen table.   Adding to the chaos is a flock of hefty sheep that wander through our property. We haven’t chased them off, since they’re doing a fantastic job of munching down the stubborn weeds. They arrive and depart with uncanny purpose, as if following an ancient trail known only to them, softly baaing as they thread their way between the trees and back to wherever they came from.   So much fun: I managed another trip to Paris (yes, another one!) and, honestly, I fall in love with it all over again ...

                                               Waxing lyrical  The beaches in Normandy unfold like pale gold ribbons against the silver-blue Atlantic. They stretch for miles and the sand feels so flat and firm beneath your feet, that you want to walk forever. If only we could count on the Normandy weather, we would abandon the sardine-packed beaches of the south forever- especially as the shelves of the supermarkets are heaving with Rose wine from there. This Summer the weather has swung from brilliant sunshine and clear blues skies to violent downpours that darkened the sky within minutes and removed all the petals off of the roses. In July, we watched in horror as hailstones the size of golf balls crashed onto rooftops and Velux windows, dented cars and caused huge amounts of damage. Wandering free Later that month, I wandered through Buckingham Palace's crimson...

Did someone steal May and most of June? Where did they go? Why is my life flashing by so quickly, is that a sign of old age I wonder? I read this recently: " That can be a sign of getting older—but not in a gloomy way. It’s more a sign that you're actively living, constantly filling your days with people, places, plans, and purpose. When every week brings a new highlight, the months don’t hang around." -so it's not because I waste many an hour sitting in the garden with a glass of Rose then? We are enjoying some very hot weather here, so hot we have been able to put the hot tub up. I mentioned to Tim that it would be nice to go in the hot tub when it's dark but the trouble is it does not get dark here until about 11 and that is way past my bed time.  On the itinerary for us this summer is the Tour De France which is coming through Laval in a a few weeks, a visit to Chateau de Lalande (which is featured in Chateau DIY), a trip to Paris (always a good idea), a trip ...