|The port of St. Malo, Brittany|
Saturday is mostly spent in the kitchen prepping the dinner for ten guests. It’s chilly and grey and blustery in the garden, but with occasional dry periods that last up to, oh, half an hour. A good time for curling up with a good book, and for flowering Nadia’s mother’s grave. French cemeteries are grim things at the best of times, all stone tombs and gravel walks. But the roses from her garden seem to catch what little light there is. That evening the guests keep the spirit gay with laughter and conversations in both French and English. By the end of the meal, left-overs are rare and quite a few bottles of wine have been dealt with. Everyone goes home the very best of friends.
By the time Sunday rolls around, I need a rest from my long week-end. Nadia and Christian have more friends than you could shake a bâton at, and visiting them always involves considerable food and drink. Nadia fixes me a sandwich for the train, complete with a baggie of cherry tomatoes and a bottle of water, and sends me off with a kiss. Christian drives me to the station where I get on another TGV train back to Paris, via Rennes and Laval. All of western France seems to be under cloudy skies but luckily it doesn’t rain until I make it safe and dry back to Montmartre. The garden is happy to see me, even if it doesn’t need to be watered. Mother Nature has seen to that for me. Many times, judging by how wet everything is.
Hopefully next week’s trip to Biarritz will be sunnier. After all, it is almost in Spain.