Читать книгу Our House is Not in Paris - Susan Cutsforth - Страница 13

When we arrived on the Saturday in Puymule for our much-anticipated two weeks of relaxation, it was freezing and pouring. On the five-hour drive, as we hit the mountains, the temperature plummeted to nine degrees. Not exactly an inspiring start to our longed-for break. The previous year we had packed copious amounts of warm clothes as we were headed for the Pyrenees and thought it might be dreadfully cold.

It was actually extremely hot. So, this year, warm clothes were pretty much limited to what we wore on the flight from our winter in Australia. Consequently, we wore the same clothes for about five days straight. As I really feel the cold, this also meant wearing most of these layers to sleep in.

On our second night, we had invited Kim, the agent we bought our house from, and her husband Martin to dinner. It was still freezing and we lit the log fire. Two days later we were in the pool and at last able to enjoy relaxing in the sun. The weather then became utterly glorious and, by the time we left, the pool temperature was thirty degrees — my sort of temperature. So, I was able to have my perfect two weeks, lying next to the pool and devouring books. The furthest I would venture some days was to the communal village bins along the lane — and even such a mundane task was a pleasure, as there were several châteaux in the valley below to gaze upon.

Now, Stuart’s decision made perfect sense. There would otherwise simply have been no respite at all from our perpetual renovating life. The surroundings of Puymule were picture-perfect: everything you dream of in the quintessentially French country life. The days were warm and splendid, and the ambiance of the surrounding garden was a far cry from my first impressions of Pied de la Croix!