Last few days in France and I bimbled amongst the blackberries, walking slowly up the lane as the pink sun was setting, looking at the cows with their new born - (they have been productive this year) picking the berries, bottle of wine in my hand, on route to thanking the lovely man up the road who cut down loads of my trees. He has a dog called Vicky and he is mid sixty, but wow, he knows how to use one of those cutters. So now there are a lot of logs, and I'm able to see how the land lies.
I have been lugging logs all day up and down the hill in preparation for a bonfire, sowing wild flower seeds (well scattering them and hoping they will sprout wondrous colours and attract every pretty bee, bird and butterfly and not be eaten by the wild deer).
I'm trying to get some writing done. Its very difficult to think when I'm in France. Dreaming is easy, but thinking difficult. Its a place for creativity - London, Richmond, with the edge and grit, even behind the pseudo civility of gentrified living - makes me write. This place makes me dream. In Richmond, I'm woken by trains and planes and the rubbish van saying 'the vehicle is reversing…' which I always thought said '…my veral is rehearsing.'
In France,, the blue tit taps on the window and then flies off, the summer light ripples through the room and the crystals create colours flashing red, pink, purple, green, yellow all the colours prisms are supposed to create (but I've forgotten). The church bells ring at seven and at twelve and at seven again.
My harvest from the garden is fine. I have a huge bowl of hazelnuts, loads of walnuts and apples but my figs aren't very big. I have twenty nine of them and they are not very big but I am told no one's figs are big this year.
The weather is wonderful because all the British have gone home so its going to be in the high twenties this week. The last guests said lovely things about everything, including me, which made me feel all my efforts are worth while. I now officially know how to make ovens shine. I do not care I am able to do this, but like being able to bake a cake, rewire a plug, change a tyre, its good to know how to do, even though I have absolutely no interest in doing it again.
And my best friend got married on Saturday. Caroline did a Brad and Angelina and did it on the spur of the moment (well, not quite spur, Dan proposed last month (in France but not here)) and she kept it a secret for a month. Very small affair in Southwold at The Swan Inn which is lovely (have been there with the ex) she rode a Shire horse afterwards down the High Street, as one does, and everyone cheered, and then went to the beach and everyone got their feet wet. The sun shone all weekend.
Everything was perfect. On the Saturday she was married, on the Sunday she was fifty and on the Monday she got a cat. Perfect. No stress about hen party, who is going to be the bridesmaid, no long speeches, no bouquet throwing. I cried when she told me on the phone because she deserves this happiness and this man, and the cat (forgotten his name but she told me). Blackberries and bimbling and best friend blissfully happy. Nice way to end the summer. (but wish I'd been there..)
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