The world from my window

I'm back in my old haunts, up on the hill, dog walking when I make an interesting discovery. I haven't been up here for months but  I vow to thee my country that I'll get back to my old routine and do this early morning walk at least three times every week. At 28 kilos, Arty certainly needs the exercise. And me, at ahem I prefer not to mention but said quickly in imperial measures is at least a stone too heavy, well, I need to exercise too. It's late summer and the children are still on holiday but ready to go back to school soon, with new uniforms, shoes backpacks, sandwich boxes and pencil cases all to shop for this week.  (It always irritated me immensely that high street stores insisted on 'Back to School' displays as soon as the children broke up for the summer. How dare these commercial types spoil the magic of holiday time. Talk about pressure.) This morning, it's quiet on the hill until the rain starts dropping in ever increasingly large spl...

It's the height of fete time here in France, with the weirdest, wildest, wackiest festivals you could ever imagine. Most of them involve eating and drinking, which is perfectly fine if you're into that sort of thing. Luckily, I am. I think I'm going native. August is the time to have fun with friends. However old or young you are. I could be here for some time. This one involved rows of mussels in soaked paper and then straw put on the top and set alight. Seems rather a convoluted way of cooking mussels en masse, but ho hum, why keep things simple? Later this week we'll be enjoying an omelette made with two and a half thousand eggs. Porquoi? Porquoi pas. That's about it. Love Maddie x

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...

Up on the hill early one morning this week, I was walking quietly around, minding my own business, when I noticed a billycan hanging from a tree trunk. 'Ooh, that's nice,' I thought. 'Someone's been up here with the children during half term and had a barbecue. But they've forgotten to take their rubbish home with them.' I was just about unhook it off the tree when I turned the corner and noticed a tent in the shadows. And then a solitary, male figure emerged from inside, stretching his arms up to the sky as if he'd just got up. I'd only that moment been thinking about an idea for a short story which had come to me after its fantastic title was kindly provided by the dictation facility on my phone's WhatsApp. This had completely misheard me when I said 'cattle escaped'. I'm not going to tell you what it typed, as I don't want you to use that as as the title for a short story which goes on to be the basis of a bestselling n...