I really can't believe that my last blog posting was at the end of June, post Glastonbury and pre Speech Day, and that we are now staring out of the window at pouring rain in anticipation of yet another British Bank Holiday weekend. Our return from foreign pastures anticipated two lots of exam results, both, thankfully, excellent. We are all ecstatic, despite the downpours, unlike the poor, desperate people of Pakistan. It's good to know that we are leading the fund raising efforts to help alleviate unimaginable tragedy and loss. Bardies already seems a long way away, though, thank goodness, I shall be back there in a fortnight's time to savour the hint of autumn in the evening air. Where has this summer gone?
As most people know, we opted out of our blues festival this year. The combination of a weak pound and the prospective double dip recession, back in December when the contracts were due to be signed, unnerved us. I desperately wanted Ian Siegal and his band to headline, not a cheap option at the best of times. We feared that many of our followers would decide to stay at home. So, in January, with deep regret, we decided to forego our bi-annual jolly and, I have to say, I missed it more than I ever thought I would.
I missed the camaraderie of 'Team Bardies', the boozy nights around the barbeque with old friends and great music [or great friends and old music?], even the endless trips to the 'decheterie' and the cash and carry. I missed the thrill of seeing Tim and Tina's faithful green and white striped tent rise up on the lawn at Bardies, like a kraken awakening from a deep slumber. I missed the sense of anticipation as the countdown begins and sundry musicians wander in at all hours of the day and night. I missed the sounds of silence as Sonny Black performs his solo set and the revelry of a reggae final set from Jeremiah Marks, with everybody singing along as though their lives depended on it. Roll on 2012, when we promise to put the show back on the road for Peter's big birthday.
There were many compensations though. The tender, loving care, and huge expense, that we have ploughed into the garden this year has paid off, although Simone's 'tilleul', which shades our outside dining area, remains very sick. The new grass is verdant and seems to have doubled the size of the garden, now ablaze with cornflowers, cosmos, sweet peas, cocosima and gladioli. It may not have survived so well under the tramplings of fun loving festival goers! I am so thrilled that we have finally begun to bring the garden back to life, with Sarah and Pascal's help, and I am sure that our festival followers will be amazed in 2012 by the transformation.
The St Lizier Festival, a classical music festival held in the cathedral of our nearby town, provided a rather more sedate musical backdrop to this summer's family holiday. It runs from the end of July until the middle of August each year. Mademoiselle Henry, our predecessor at Bardies, had been a patron of the St Lizier Festival. David Lively, the festival's music director and Annie Soubion, the festival organiser, knew her and had been to the house before we had bought it. Of course, we had to invite them to lunch! We were thrilled to bits that Felicity Lott, performing at the festival for the second time, came with them. With a brother-in-law who was a conductor, I know exactly what opera singers can be like. Instead, Felicity is the antithesis of the egotistical 'prima donna', charming, attentive, generous and great company. Her glorious concert of Schumann 'lieder' and French 'chansons' the following evening was a privilege to attend indeed. That someone of such reputation and stature should be happy to perform in the depths of the French countryside is testament to her joy in bringing her favourite music to a wider audience. It was one of the highlights of our summer.
A fortnight later, we were privileged to have a writer to stay. It seems to me that people who are at the top of their profession have no need to show off. Generosity of spirit is what singles them out as truly exceptional people. I know that there are many bad tempered geniuses but they are seldom able to pass on their wisdom, which is a shame in a world where mediocrity often seems to be the norm. We all need role models to inspire us, whatever age we are, and spending time with tremendously talented people leaves a warm afterglow, rather like the residual energy that always seems to me to emanate from a Jackson Pollock painting. Bardies has always been a natural home to creative people, musicians, artists, writers and journalists [and the occasional politician!] so it's always a joy to continue the tradition. It never ceases to amaze me just how privileged we are.
Two trips to Barcelona, one to drop off my sister and daughter at the airport, the other for me to take the ferry to Mahon, took me up and over the Pyrenees, via Ax and Puigcerda. How I love that drive! The second time I went via my friend Meredith's lovely house in Axiat, along the Route des Corniches. Both times, the weather was wet, grey and misty until I emerged from the Tunnel del Cadi, eleven euros out of pocket, into blinding sunshine. We found a lovely little boutique hotel in the Ramblas, which was perfect in every way. Barcelona, like New York, never seems to sleep and I could happily have watched the street mime artists from my window late into the night had I had the energy.
The staff could not have been more helpful, and never more so than when my trusty, ancient Jeep Cherokee decided to refuse to respond. Eventually, after a few tears of frustration and the odd Basil Fawlty kick, we got going. I am loathe to admit this, but I had to fill up in an out of town Barcelona petrol station with the engine running for fear of being stranded, unable to turn the engine on, once again. My poor sixteen year old daughter didn't know whether to stay with me and risk being blown to smithereens, or hide in the shop and risk just being severely maimed and burned! Fortunately, the pumps were a long way from the shop, so nobody witnessed my reckless necessity. Never again! My nerves aren't up to it.
A night in Castillon, with dinner 'al fresco' on Sarah and Pascal's west facing balcony with a myriad of chiaroscuro shades, and another with the Languedoc's most knowledgeable wine experts at my friend Caroline's delicious house and 'conserverie' in the Lauragais, rounded off our last few days in 'la France profonde'. It's been a busy summer, as ever, but a tremendously enjoyable and rewarding one. Our 'locateurs' have had nothing but praise for the 'esprit' of Bardies and our hard work getting it all ready. It is a joy to share it, especially now that the children seem to prefer to hit the summer high life of Cornwall and the Balearics. I await their return to more homely holidays chez nous. Meanwhile, I count the days until my joyful return. As the nights begin to draw in, I am thankful for the neat stack of logs piled high in the garage. It will not be so very long before we will be needing them, I fear. As another long, lazy summer slowly moves towards 'la rentree', we wonder at where the time went, yet again. And, as September beckons and I move into my sixtieth year, it becomes a metaphor for my life. Time really does speed up the older one gets.
