When that heaven scented baguette gets stale, which it naturally does within 24 hours of purchase, what does one do with the remaining half or quarter? Its a dilemna. The neighbors no doubt, devoured their baguette at lunch (and would not be caught dead with a dried out speciman for their next repast). They will be going right back down to the village for another, fresh loaf later in the day and I for one want to run right back the hill with them. I can’t help it! I might miss something.

How can I rationalize not finishing this loaf which just hours ago held so much promise, but now seems so dull? And that wonderful artisanal butter from the market. It won’t be tasting that wonderful on a sad old loaf as this surely will be before the sun rises demain matin.

So it’s a problem. Too much of a good thing. That’s the problem with France. Not nasty rude people. Surely not. Could not be more polite and helpul. No, the problem is my inner glutton. And the countless mouthwatering distractions. I confess. I want fresh bread at every turn. I am attached to the outcome. Fresh bread, daily, at every meal. Can you blame me?

That’s a lot of driving up and down the hill. Ah but what a drive, which route, by the river or over the hill and then again, which boulangerie should I go to? Walnut bread or Crustillot? Ficelle or Baguette?

And then of course, the morning croissant. Oh, but that’s only for Sundays! OOOhhhh, how about a chocolatine for breakfast. Mmmmm, what to do?

I can’t decide, so this will have to be continued later…..

(originally written 11 April, 2006)

Walking up the chemin de service, or tractor trail early this morning, I glance back over my left shoulder and grind to a halt in awe. The barn is completely engulfed in a divine spotlight, the shimmering early morning sun framing it perfectly.

“This is just too much Slaine. Come on, I have to go back and get the camera” But she wants nothing to do with my serendipity and digs in her heels as only an Irish can. “Vite, Vite, Slaine, please!” But NO GO!

After some serious bribery in the form of promised cookies, we turn around and I go back and grab the camera. By the time this mini drama has ended, a good 7-10 minutes have elapsed. And when I reach what I thought was again the pinnacle of divinity, I can’t find the exact spot. And of course, the illusive magical light has shifted.

At first I am frustrated. Then I realize, no matter. I saw it. I felt it. I was in the moment and present for the gift, glorious and fleeting, but so memorable.

(originally written 3 April, 2006)

The moutons up the hill are completely preoccupied with their craft. Munching constantly as they root forward, they are creating trodden paths in the newly emerging grass. Their glissened pathways are made more apparent by the early morning frost here at the end of March.

(originally written 29 March, 2006)

After one week of clear clear air and arresting blue sky, everything almost sweet in its intoxication, I find each morning when I open the shutters, that I am almost in shock by the simple quiet beauty that is unfolding daily in front of my eyes. Boy are we lucky. And just wait until the guests get here. I can hardly wait to see their expressions.

(originally written 4 April, 2006)

It’s been less than 24 hours. And this is apparent. I never really left. And either did Slaine. That dark New England winter. I just imagined it. A bad dream. That lack of color, those blues and grays, surely an illusion.

HERE, hillsides dotted with great gobs of egg yolk yellow. March 27th, and the forsythia are shouting from every coin. My tulips are six inches tall! When did this happen?

Closing the shutters for the very first evening at 9 pm, I breathe in the sweet scents of grass and mouton. All matter of baby bahhing, as I am gently reminded, yes pinch me, I am here, I am here, I am here! I am present on many levels here in the verdant paradise once again.

On my very first full day, all the neighbors up and down the hill, stop to say hi. “We saw the lights. We knew you were back. Et le chien? Ca va?”

My first stop on the drive down from Michel and Marie France’s house is at Bio Vital, in Brive, my favorite organic grocery shop. Weary and bleary eyed, I want to make sure I have some decent nourishment having missed Bernard and Luc at the Friday Souillac market. A whole week to wait for those wonderful repasts.

I buy something I don’t even love, namely broccoli. But if broccoli can create rapture, then this is it. I have never tasted steamed broccoli with this sweet flavor. La terre. This effusive French earth. It permeates and influences everything; families, food, culture. I see it here on my own hillside.

I turn in knowing that this is the first of many early mornings and sunset wonders that soon await me. Nascent spring, March.

Happiness permeates my jetlagged body. Here’s what I know though. It does not get any better than this.

(originally written March 27, 2006)