Sunday 16th August
Somehow my few days off after the retreat became less about rest and more about catching up on everything I hadn’t had time to do before. A satisfying hustle of ticking things off of my long, long list, but today my body is craving rest and I am determined to listen.
While Tim takes his mum to the airport I do the essential chores and then I put fresh sheets on my bed and climb in. I read my book, rubbing the sandy, ivory paper between my fingers, words running through my mind until my eyes grow heavy, the words start to blur and I drift off, napping for a little while and then reading again.
In the evening we squash onto the sofa with the boys, just the four of us again, watching TV together, everyone home. A much-needed slow day, time to switch off and relax, just for a little while.
Monday 17th August
Everything is still, there isn’t a breath of wind, and although it’s supposed to be cooler today the sun is still fierce. This last punch of heat has shifted something, the countryside seems to be staggering under its weight, as if the constant heat, the lack of rain, the sullen, sulky, simmering nights have suddenly all become too much.
Leaves are turning now, not because it’s time, but because the trees are giving up, accepting defeat, cutting their losses. The limes are beginning to yellow, the sycamore leaves are curling at their edges, almost cupping themselves in the vain hope of catching even the tiniest smidgen of moisture, the horse chestnuts are already shedding, coppery leaves crumbling to dust before a conker has even hit the ground.
Usually by now the grass under the false acacia tree is threaded with purple cyclamen, but there are only a handful of flowers, the brave, determined ones, doing their best to mark their place, the ground underneath them so dry and cracked that it’s hard for anything to grow.
The blackberries are doing well, clusters of jet berries spangling the hedgerows, interwoven with blue blushed sloes and pinkish red hawthorns just ripening; deep-rooted are blackthorn, hawthorn and bramble. I keep meaning to take a pot with me on my walks to pick blackberries, but really, who wants a crumble when it’s 30c every boring-blue-skied day?
I feel such guilt about the trees, to see them struggle so much on my watch weighs heavy. I don’t know what to do? I’m willing it to rain, hoping each day to wake up to at least a dew-soaked lawn, if a storm isn’t possible. Not once this summer have my shoes been sodden with dew, usually my trainers spend the mornings propped up against the back door drying out after my early walk, this year they are just dusty with dry earth.
Looking at the trees I feel powerless and angry. Is this it now? Is this how our summers will be? I’m not sure I can bear it. I feel withered myself, worn out from long days working in the unrelenting heat, tired of living in the dark behind the shutters just to keep the house cool, weary of worrying about other people being too hot.
I stand and look out over the parched countryside, the fields brown and gold, bleached dry by the sun. The still air hangs around me, an invisible cloak that I can’t seem to take off, its warmth unwelcome. I crunch my way back through the woods, the paths already golden with a layer of scattered leaves; the trees protecting themselves, lessening their burden. Today I don’t relish my role as their custodian, it’s hard to feel like you’re doing a good job when there’s absolutely nothing you can do.
Tuesday 18th August
The ironing pile is becoming precarious, linen napkins stacked so high they touch the sloping roof of the laundry room and threaten to tumble onto the floor every time someone walks past. I have been putting this job off, waiting for a cooler day, which never seems to materialise.
There is time left in the morning today though, an hour before lunchtime, before the sun gets too vicious. The kitchen window at the north facing front of the house is still open, still in shade, the merest hint of a breeze shifting in and out. I switch on the fan, sending the blades spinning and aim it square at my back. Steam rises from iron, the crisp, fresh smell of freshly washed linen filling the kitchen, layering itself over the sweet cinnamon from the batch of granola I baked this morning.
Slowly the crumpled pile of linens at one end of the ironing board becomes the neatly pressed stacks of napkins, table runners and placemats lined up on the top of Rayburn and the kitchen table. I manage to get them all done without sweat beading on my back, without the heat in the kitchen becoming unmanageable, and this feels like quite the accomplishment. The teetering ironing pile is gone, the linen cupboard is full again, the napkins lined up by colour and print, pinks and blues, stripes and checks.
Wednesday 19th August
“Big squares or small squares? How many pages? Is this the right size?” Yet another compass, set square and ruler, apparently these “just disappear”. Glue sticks, pencils, rubbers, reams of paper, a very specific sort of pen. I scan the list, checking we have enough workbooks and plastic wallets, wondering as I do if you can buy shares in French stationery companies and whether their dividends are paid in pencil sharpeners?
There are two weeks of the summer holidays left and the back to school shop can’t wait any longer. At least after nine years I don’t have to translate every item on the list and can largely wait at the end of an aisle while the boys brave the melee of stressed parents and angry children all arguing about the colours of notebooks or a particular brand of biro. This will be one of those things that I’ll look back on with nostalgic longing I’m sure, when they’re too big to need a restock of pens and paper every August. Already it’s less fraught than it used to be, we tackle it with a grim humour these days.
It’s pleasantly cool today, a breeze ruffling the hedgerows as we drive home. Clouds are building in the sky, bubbling up in shades of pale mink and watery grey, darkening at the edges. It comes on to rain in the late afternoon, a hissing downpour that lasts a good 40 minutes, surging one moment and subsiding the next before beginning all over again. I watch it fall through the open window, letting the raindrops freckle my face, willing it to keep going. It’s just a thirst quencher though, but hopefully a promise of more to come.
Thursday 20th August
Raindrops glisten as the sun stretches and climbs out from behind the trees, her light catching in the leftovers of a showery night. For the first time in many weeks I pull on a jumper before I step outside, the early morning cool enough finally to pinch at my cheeks. My nostrils twitch at the spicy dampness of the air, dry leaves and parched grass now rain-soaked, an autumnal scent on this late summer morning.
Each time I snip a flower stem beads of rain sprinkle my hands and arms, my t-shirt damp, my jumper already discarded, draped over the wheel barrow handles. Flower heads hang heavy under the weight of the rain, I dead head as I pick, trying to tidy as I go. My buckets are full, my hands cold for the first time in months.
The weather forecast says cool, showery weather for at least 10 days. Sunshine, clouds, showers and storms, excitement bubbles in my stomach, I feel ridiculously euphoric and suddenly free. Life this summer has felt so small, so dark, the shutters closed, the heat so draining, our focus just on getting through each day with enough energy to manage the next.
For three months solid the temperature has barely dipped below 30c, a good 5c hotter than our usual summer should be. The 30c days have been the ones we’ve considered bearable, the peaks have been far, far higher. Fine if you’re on holiday, free to relax and rest when you like, but brutal if you have to work from sun up until sun down. We’ve got through it hour-by-hour, imprisoned by the heat, but now we’re finally free.
I arrange my flowers with the shutters open, a breeze blowing in through the open back door, the kitchen full of light. This is summer as it should be, bright and beautiful, there to be enjoyed.
Friday 21st August
I switch on the lamps to make the salon feel cosy, their warm light seeping into the room. Outside the late afternoon sky is a dark smokey black, thunder rumbling, lightning snapping. Daylight has been sucked up into the clouds, adding to the anger of the sky.
Showers have blown in and out all day, the sun peeping out shyly in between, the garden beginning to raise its head, each dousing of rain giving it a little more confidence. We run back and forth between the downpours, hefting clean sheets and towels one way, dirty the other, hoping not to get soaked between the house and gîte.
This is our first storm though, the first one to bubble up overhead, blowing in across the fields, announcing itself with a round of thunderclaps, and finally, feeling it’s given us fair warning, hurling down a barrage of rain. It’s delicious. I can’t keep the smile off my face. Drenching rain, hopefully soaking into the ground already softened by a morning of showers, maybe making its way down to the waiting roots, ready to bring everything back to life.
Saturday 22nd August
Sweeping steps is one of those jobs, like cleaning windows; nobody notices when you’ve done it, but they will if you don’t. I hustle the dried leaves into piles, chasing them down from the top step to the bottom, one step at a time before scooping them up between my hands and into the wheel barrow.
The terrace is covered in leaves already, the crisped ones, the gone-over-early ones brought down by the storm, skittering over the gravel and catching under the tables. I’m hoping one of the boys might be cajoled into getting the leaf blower out tomorrow when a full day of sunshine will have dried them out enough to make them easier to shuffle onto the lawn.
Back in the kitchen nine jars of freshly made, burgundy red, raspberry jam are cooling on the side, waiting for their labels. I set the preserving pan on the heat at breakfast time, so happy not to have to worry about the kitchen soaking up the heat of the stove as the fruit and sugar bubbled away.
The stocks on the jam shelf have been dwindling, but I just couldn’t face standing over a hot pot and ladling boiling jam into searing jars. I’ve been squirrelling away fruit in the freezer instead, one of my favourite summer rituals put off until a cooler day. Today felt like perfect a jam making day, as if my kind of summer is finally here at last.
PS - the full video tour of the sitting room is coming I promise. I’m half way through editing it all together for you all. I’ll get it published as soon as I can.
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With a little help from our friends
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They came one weekend in June, tumbling out of a white van late into the night, stretching and yawning after a long journey, bringing with them their oldest clothes and the sort of enthusiasm and determination that we hadn’t felt for months. Five of them, leaving behind wives and children, giving up their free time for a long weekend to help us move the renovations forward.
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September 14, 2025
This tomato and chilli jam is beloved by our guests and a favourite in our kitchen too. It’s spicy and stickily sweet and is so good in a cheese sandwich. If you have a glut of garden tomatoes then this is a great way to use them up. You need a little patience and time for this recipe, it doesn’t need a lot of looking after but depending on how juicy your tomatoes are it can take a good while to cook down. I tend to make it on rainy days when I have no where to go and something else to be getting on with in the kitchen. A quick stir every now and then to stop it catching on the bottom is all the attention it needs. It tastes best after a few weeks or even months of maturing, so it’s a good one to make now (in September) for Christmas gifts.
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Call me if you need anything
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February 15, 2023
It has taken me a long time to write this piece. I think that I can say, hand-on-heart, that if it wasn’t for Alain we might have considered giving up on this life at several points in our journey so far. We could not have asked for a better neighbour. Kind, patient and eternally helpful. He always seems to arrive just at the right moment, that wry smile on his face, ready to show us a better way of doing something, bringing us machine power when our muscles are failing and correcting our terrible French at every opportunity. We have learnt from him and he has learnt from us, each of us sharing our own pieces of wisdom, with us all meeting in the middle at a shared love of the countryside, old things and good food. We wouldn’t be without him, to us he is a true legend and we feel very grateful to call him our neighbour. Our first few weeks here would certainly have smelt a whole lot different if it wasn’t for Alain…..
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