It was my last full day in the French countryside, and I was determined to savor any moment of it.
The relaxation that flowed over me in Paris had continued throughout the week; but as my time grew short, a gnawing unease began to hover in the background. On this, my last day, I woke filled with the bittersweet knowledge I would soon have to return to ‘real life’ in the States. I was determined not to let this spoil my last hours in France.
After breakfast (the peaches and plums so sweet) headed to a town with a long history on a nearby hilltop. Deeded to the Gourdon family in 961, after it survived (just barely) an encounter with Richard the Lionhearted it was rebuilt as a castrum, a fortified city with circular ramparts. While the fortress is gone and the ramparts reduced a low wall, you can still visit a 12th century water mill, a 13th century church, 14th, 15th, and 16th century homes, a 17th century cathedral (which remains surprisingly cool in the summer heat), as well as the architecture, traffic and hubbub of the modern age.
Everything seemed slightly more vivid than on previous days: a sprout of a succulent tucked in a honey-colored wall; the orange, yellow, and greens of paella simmering at the marché; the seemingly boneless cat sagging between a stone balcony and filigreed iron railing during our walk back to the car. At the farm store I snapped a shot of their lambie, a stylized plastic rendering placed atop the meats cooler, who (like Lambie in our back yard) I had grown fond of during the week. Back at the house I clung to the earthy flavor of the lettuce, creaminess of the cheese, salt of the smoked trout, and tang of the capers that made up our noontime meal.
After lunch Z and I retired to our respective rooms. Though I was tired I found it hard to nap, not wanting to miss a moment; in the end, I got up and started to pack. But what was this, in a carefully folded Lidl bag? The chocolate kir I had bought some days before. I carefully opened the paper and gold foil, broke off a piece and took a bite. But what was this? I had expected cherry creme, but there seemed to be some sort of liquid instead… What an amazing gift, I thought to myself, as the nip warmed my tongue, chocolate-covered kirsch. Packing was quickly abandoned, and I returned to bed, savoring piece after piece as I listened to the sounds around me.
After a while Zia began to stir, and once her movement had localized in the kitchen, I joined her. Together we rummaged the frigo and composed a lunch for me to take on the train the following day. Plan in mind, we then headed to the yard to water the flowers and vegetables wilting in the summer sun, and (for me) foraging plums fallen from the tree which, thankfully, had started to subside over the week. It was a nice, lazy, afternoon, the thunk of the plums in my bucket peppered with exclamations of “OH!” as Zia found new heat damage in the garden.
As the afternoon grew long we retreated back to the house for aperitifs (both of us), coffee (for me), and conversation. Once the sun was low, I slipped on my trainers, grabbed my camera, and went for one last evening exploration. I turned right and headed up the hill, past the house with the barking dogs, another landscaped with fruit trees, to the main road. From there I turned right and, after a short jog, turned back onto the country road that formed the back border of the surrounding pastures. I snapped more pics along the way: budding thistles, bright colors in a neighbor’s garden, les vaches in the field bordered by a blackberry bramble, the tobacco sheds further down the lane. The sun dipped below the horizon as I rounded the corner by the travelers’ caravans. At the marché that morning, Zia (ever the charmer) had been gifted a peach tart by the paella vendor. We had set it aside, planning to share it as an after-walk snack, and that and the encroaching darkness quickened my pace. I arrived back at the house to find Zia opening the shutters, windows, and doors to let in the slightly cooler evening air.
Perhaps now is a good time to mention the neighbor chat that would visit from time to time. I first sighted him sauntering through the garden my first afternoon, and by mid-week he had been leaving me gifts (a vole and a small bird) on the front porch. (Okay, they were probably for Zia, but her first response was to shriek for me….) You can see where this is going…. Zia led the way to the kitchen and before I could join her she let out a sharp “Out! Out!” The chat zipped past me and out the front door, and Z emerged from the kitchen holding the torn, stained, bag that had previously held the tart.
After a good laugh (okay, I thought it was funny), we called it a night and headed to bed.
More soon!