The cold chills our bones when we arrive at our house in South-West France. We have an old farmhouse in a little village on a hill near the River Lot. We think it was probably built in the middle of the 19th Century and everything is hefty. The walls are built of limestone blocks at least 30 cm thick, which keep the place cool in summer, but it takes a long time to warm up. We build a fire in the big fireplace with wood from the orchard and go to bed early.
When the sun comes out, the place is transformed. I walk out into the back garden and down the slope into the orchard of old fruit trees. The grass is green, long and full of weeds, but among them are early spider orchids and grape hyacinths. In the commercial orchards, the lines of lacy white plum blossom are fading. In our garden, cherry and pear trees are still white and the old quince tree has pale pink blossom. When we go for a walk we see butterflies we never see in Britain, such as the Cleopatra and the Swallowtail.
We go for a cycle ride. This is an area of limestone ridges, separated by stream valleys. We pass another little village on a hill. These are bastide villages, built in the Middle Ages and fortified. The hills are not high but can be steep. As we cycle up a hill, three local women walking along the road smile and shout ‘Allez! Allez!‘ Do we look very strange? Two elderly people struggling up hills on bicycles in rural France? I only get off and walk once and, by the time we return home, I feel a bit weak in the legs but delighted I made it.
dreaminginstone 