The world from my window

So there we were, enjoying France at its liveliest when someone pointed to the sky. The moon. There was a great chunk missing from it, as if it were made from fromage and someone - or some thing - had taken a bite. A clanger maybe. (I love The Clangers. Here they are on my windowsill at home, courtesy of the good knitters of Lush Places WI). We sitting outside at a village marche gourmand when we witnessed a partial lunar eclipse. What made it even more exciting was that we'd had no prior knowledge it was going to happen. This is because I've stopped listening to the news, too depressed by the whole Brexit debacle, the state of the world in general and the idiots who run it. It's almost fifty years to the day that Neil Armstrong took that one small step and a giant leap for mankind. Back then, I was coming up to nine years old. The moon landing filled me with awe and hope, hope for the bright future that surely lay ahead of all of us.  I still love the idea of s

There is a welcome breeze in the French air today, after more than a week of sweltering temperatures. It's warm but not as crazily hot as the last two weeks. A day without sweating is a day to be savoured, as are the early types of fruit from the purple-leafed plum trees encircling the village. In the garden, there is a Mirabelle and the fruits are delicious lightly stewed and served with ice cream. In the markets, the fruit and vegetables are equally fresh. It’s a joy to wander around, soaking up the sights, sounds and smells of the rural French way of life. In the supermarkets E Leclerc and Carrefour, the fruit and veg sections groan under the array of melons, lettuce by the yard and apricots, lots of lovely apricots, and nectarines. The fish counters are works of art and the cheese section has me salivating at the choice laid out before us. Prices are not cheap – this is not Spain – but the quality and freshness is most excellent. There is a pr

It’s morning and the sun is streaming through the windows. It’s early but it’s light as anything out there and in here. And cool, at least for for the moment. We both wake at the same time, the disturbed look on Mr Grigg's face reflecting exactly how I am feeling at this moment. I’ve just had a very strange dream. Remember, we are in south west France in the middle of a heatwave. Oddly and as if on cue, he says: “I had a really funny dream last night. We were hosting a dinner party. But it was a disaster.” “That’s odd,” say I, barely able to lift my head from the pillow it was so hot last night. “So did I.”   “Really? Well, I dreamt I’d invited someone you really didn’t want there as a guest.” “An ex-wife?” “No, worse than that.” “I don’t know,” I say. “Give me a clue.” And he tousles his hair and makes an idiot face. “Not Boorish Johnson?” I am intrigued. “Exactly him.” I sigh with affront and turn over to look at Mr Grigg as

It was the bagpipes that did it. I was feeling pretty emotional in any case, as the cavalcade trundled by, its Europeans theme reflected in some of the floats and marching bands. It was a balmy summer’s night in a small town in France, the swallows flitting overhead, laughing at and weaving in and out of the tremendous shifting shapes of sparrows roosting in the trees. A hound on a lead was howling like it belonged to the Family Baskerville. People dangled their feet in a fountain. It was gone ten-thirty and the bridge over the Aveyron was still too hot to sit on. This canacule (my newest French word) was going on for far too long. It was time the heatwave turned to dust before we did. The day before, I had melted in forty-two degrees. The carnival queen and her attendants were ultra cool, though, dancing on their tiny float and surrounded by the flags of Europe, including our own Union Flag, all fluttering alongside each other. And then there were fun