We have wheeled in the housesitters and tomorrow we are going to Provence for a few days. It will be a ludicrously early set off. I think leaving the house at 4.15am was mentioned but I had my fingers in my ears and was going lalalala at the time so can't be sure.
There are so many things to do here. The cutting garden needs weeding and sorting and the sweetpeas, having flowered their hearts out for months, are ready to be cut down. The raised beds in the kitchen garden need clearing and composting and I am plotting new herbs, with the inspiration and encouragement of Mark Diacono's "A Taste of the Unexpected". A fraught question this one, with the question of what is right for the house and the site balanced against the lure of the new. Like Scarlett O'Hara, I shall think about it tomorrow, or even on Thursday. The kitchen is groaning with apples and our daughters have both put in pleas for more apple based jellies, particularly ones to have on toast: apple and cinnamon, apple and quince and apple and ginger are all planned, clear and glowing and full of the light of late summer.
It will all happen, or it won't and the sky won't fall, but just now we will have a few days with our friends in Provence, staying in their new house which we saw first as a virgin site full of pines and rock, and then as a half finished building, promising much but causing a lot of heartache. I can't wait to see it as a house.
I can't wait to sit and talk and catch up and wander around the markets piled high with fruit and vegetables and see what is happening in their new garden, about as different from mine as you could imagine. I hope the sun shines because Provence is made to be seen in sun but whether it does or not, a small, warm, wine and food filled interlude is about to start.
Back soon. Might even be ready for the Welsh winter.