My French Fancy

  "Art has to move you, and design does not, unless it's a good design for a bus".  David Hockney 1937-2026 I was sad to hear that David Hockney passed away recently at 86. The news brought tributes from the art world and beyond as people celebrated his life, colourful work, and lasting impact. In a previous blog, I joked that he was almost our neighbour—maybe that’s a bit of a stretch, but he did live in Normandy. I was excited to visit his exhibition, A Year in Normandy, in Bayeux a few years ago. It was first shown at the Musée l'Orangerie in Paris and shows the four seasons in Normandy. He painted it all on his iPad, and the format was inspired by the Bayeux tapestry, just with far fewer murders. Walking through the exhibition, I was struck by the energy and freshness in each seasonal scene. The way he captured the changing light and countryside made me think of quiet mornings and gentle rains (we normally get plenty of those) outside my own window. I left feeling...

  "I need Summer to be longer so I have more time to do nothing.” – Unknown   Where have they been now? Tim and I were lucky to help out at the Standing with Giants installation at the Ver-sur-Mer War Memorial. The display has life-sized silhouettes to honour the 1,476 British servicemen and women who died on D-Day, 6 June 1944. By the end of the day, we were covered in black paint, but the weather was perfect, with a clear blue sky and a great view of the sea. I remember standing quietly for a moment among the silhouettes as the late afternoon light fell across the memorial. It gave me goosebumps to realise that each shadow stood for a life lost, and I felt both sadness and gratitude. We can never fully repay the sacrifices made for us on D-Day, but we can help by telling others about the Memorial so it gets the support it needs. Thanks to the Memorial, those 1,476 brave men and women will always be remembered. The installations will stay until September, when they...

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 ...