Having said that I scribble all the time, in the past few weeks it’s been difficult to carve out any time to put pen to paper or bash away at the laptop.  The end of July and August is of course the busiest time at Maison Lamothe, with a stream of holiday makers, pilgrims, family and friends all leaving their footprints behind.

It always begins with my birthday celebrations and the now traditional party I give for friends and neighbours.  This year my sister and brother-in-law finally made it out, no longer being hampered by the pandemic and it was lovely to be together again.  I adore my sister, but it doesn’t take long for us to get over the initial excitement and to revert to our 6 and 9 year-old selves.  She just cannot help giving me the benefit of her unwanted brilliant advice and the smile and chilled-out persona that my guests always encounter melts to dust as I react to her unhelpful suggestions or barrister-like cross examinations. 

Why oh why can’t I just say, ‘That’s a great idea, I’ll give it a go.’  After all it’s what I would say to absolutely everyone else when they suggest the most outlandish, time-consuming wasted effort imaginable.  But no, that innocent question, ‘How much water do you drink, Michelle?’ is of course loaded, as is ‘Should you be ironing that duvet cover? Is it dry?’   And as for unplugging everything and not leaving TVs on stand-by to reduce my electricity bill, don’t get me started. 

But I love her.  She’s my sister.  And on the journey home, she probably gave her husband an inventory twice as long as I could write, of the things I do to irritate her.  But a plate of 24 devilled eggs defused the situation.  It went flying through the air, as first she slipped carrying them down the staircase to the birthday buffet and then I ended up on my backside rushing to save her.  No harm done.  Well the eggs, obviously.  And a lot of wasted egg-shelling time.

‘Devilled eggs?’ she’d said in disgust.  ‘Aren’t they a bit 1970s?’

‘No.  Nigella’s big on them,’ I said.

‘Well its too much faff, if you ask me,’ she retorted as she huffed and puffed and picked at bits of residue shell.

‘I’m not asking you,’ I said firmly, ‘Just keep shelling.’

And so as we scraped the remains of 48 beautifully shelled and stuffed egg halves and the shattered shards of my favourite serving plate into a bin liner, we laughed and giggled like naughty children. 

‘Can’t we save any?’ she asked, distraught that all that shelling had been in vain, ‘No-one will ever know.’

‘No.  That’s your punishment.’ I declared, as I dragged her outside to introduce her to more of my lovely French neighbours.

‘Your sister is adorable,’ they informed me as they watched her marching 500 miles around the garden at 2 am, accompanied by the Proclaimers and my friend’s husband.

‘Yes,’ I agreed, ‘absolutely adorable.’

And then she was gone and I was missing her, the only clue that she’d been here, a small greasy stain on the bottom stair which refuses to budge no matter how hard I scrub away at it.

Sister gone, beds changed, rooms cleaned and then the dogs arrived.  Lots of them.  We welcome dogs.    After all, half of the welcoming committee at Maison Lamothe is a dog. And a fine welcome all dogs will get from Bertie.  Unless that is, they take a liking to me.  He is definitely an only child and wants no-one muscling in on his patch.  I am his mother and that is that. So when poor Raboliot from the village arrived for a sleep-over whilst his parents were away for the night, Bertie was not amused and much vying for my attention ensued.  Thank goodness for Sherlock, a Lassie look-alike from Caen who was altogether more genial and friendly towards poor Raboliot who just wanted someone to race boisterously around the grounds.  Whilst Olivier, a beautifully groomed specimen from Switzerland here to take part in a national dog show relaxed by the swimming pool in between performances. Was he lying on a sun bed? Naturally.  

Poor Bertie prowling his manor wondering when things would return to normal and no effort would be required to remain top dog.  It didn’t get easier.  There were the two rescue dogs from Barcelona, one of whom I thought looked like a cute little pig, as he waddled around with his partner in crime, a skinny whippet type named Juliet.  They stayed for a week and whilst I loved them and their lovely young owners, I think they did unnerve my other guests a little, especially when they caught sight of the battered car they had all arrived in, which was now minus a back window.  It having been smashed in with a hammer shortly after their arrival when they realised they’d locked their keys inside the car.

There were at least another dozen or so dogs that came and went – the divine dog from La Reunion with the ice blue eyes, the huge blond Setter with his bossy tiny Terrier side-kick, a frenzied Pomeranian, a huge ball of fluff that looked like a feather boa on legs, a sad-eyed Beagle, a couple of Chihuahuas, a Border Collie.  They all posed for photos with Bertie – who did his duty – although not quite with the smiley enthusiasm he gives it when he is the only dog in the group shots.  Oddly enough Bertie’s favourites were the tiny dogs with attitude, who snapped at him and ignored me.  For those he turned on the Bertie charm, his perverse need to get everyone to love him.

Of course it was an effortless job when children turned up.  Bertie loves children and they love Bertie and hours were spent patrolling the swimming pool supervising the water games that continued after dinner and into the inky black night.  There’s nothing more exciting than midnight swims and the squeals and laughter was unending.   Or maybe it’s going to the supermarket with your new holiday friends, high jinks being a communication substitute when you don’t speak a common language.  Was I the ‘responsible adult’ in charge of the three girls hurling up and down the aisles with the youngest directing operations from inside the shopping trolly.

Was I really caring for children whilst their parents relaxed?  Hardly.  My dear friend Benoit, a Norman dairy farmer can never relax.  It was his idea of a perfect holiday, working his way down my ‘needs fixing’ list and then when that was soon completed, clearing out the atelier and huge barn, both of which were a jumble of stuff left behind by previous owners and copiously added to by me. 

Not so now.  I am now a proud owner of a workshop with beautifully arranged boxes of nails, bolts and screws and rows of bottles, tins and jars filed by category.  No longer will I respond to the request, ‘Have you got any wood glue?’ with, ‘Probably.  Somewhere in the shed.’  I can now proudly offer a selection of adhesives.  And yes, I do have several pots of wood glue.  No need to buy anymore for a good ten years. A screw driver?  I have 17.  As for my barn, I can wander around the vast space and fantasise about what wonderful new gite, party space, writer’s retreat, yoga studio, home I could create there.

After his several trips to the local tip, I promised Benoit faithfully that when he returns next year, I will not have filled either space with stuff that I might need or mend one day, or I’ve ‘hidden’ there in a quick tidy up.   Naturally he valeted my car afterwards.  It’s not been this clean since we bought it 6 years ago.

It wasn’t long before my vow to Benoit was challenged. Less than 24 hours after waving a tearful farewell to Benoit, Sophie, Gabin and Lucie, my gardener arrived with a huge and heavy box.  A present for me from another of his clients, a British lady who is returning to the UK.  I opened the box eagerly.  Someone else’s record collection. 

My new guests, a lovely couple about the same age as me from Sussex who were here for a wedding joined in the excitement of pulling out covers, reminiscing and attempting to sing our own versions of Xanadu, Love to Love you Baby and the entire soundtrack from South Pacific.  There were some singles, one by Rolf Harris which we quickly skimmed past, some Beatles and Rolling Stones.

‘They might be worth something,’ said my guest.

‘I doubt it.  They’re scratched with tatty covers,’ I replied, ‘And who wants a Max Boyce album?’

‘Oh I think they’re sweet,’ said his wife, ‘someone’s memories.’

‘Yes but not mine.  And I don’t have a record player.’   As I examined a couple more covers I could feel myself being pulled in.  Perhaps I could put them in the atelier?  There’s a vide grenier (car boot sale) in the village in two weeks time. But my promise to Benoit was ringing in my ears.  ‘Don’t do it Michelle,’ my head screamed as I pulled out yet another belter.

‘Oh God, it’s the Nolans,’ said my guest, ‘I snogged a Nolan once.  Back in the day.  In Benidorm.’

‘Wow.  Which one?’ I asked.  Suitably impressed.

Despite pouring over the album cover, he couldn’t remember.  Neither could his wife, who has heard this story many times over the years. 

‘They’ve got to go,’ I said.  And so I dutifully drove to the tip with the box and a few other items I had tidied up, inspired by Benoit’s efforts.

‘Do you want those?’ asked the helpful man I had met at the tip.  I was following his lead, impressed by his understanding of the complex sorting system and the expert way he sorted through his junk and efficiently threw everything in the correct bins.

‘No,’ I said, ‘They’re all in English,’ I said, ‘But be my guest.’

‘I have a mate who collects these,’ he replied scooping up the heavy box.

My guests were delighted when I returned.

‘They’ve had a reprieve,’ I announced.

‘It was in Hannah’s nightclub,’ said my guest. 

‘What was?’ asked his wife.

‘Where I snogged the Nolan.  Though I still can’t remember which one.’