I’m in the Dordogne, the romantic backwater in rural Aquitaine. Much less busy than the South of France, unless it’s market day. The view from the little rural cottage where I am based for a month is of lush vegetation with a lake in the distance.

C’est parfait.

I am deep in the countryside and sharing a washing line with the mainline ant track into the house. Sharing the garden with about 100 cats, the terrace with some wonderfully busy bees and my rosé with a few annoying wasps.

I don’t think I am getting the balance quite right. I have taken to having a glass of rosé (or five) with my lunch like a duck to water. It’s what the locals seem to do when I spot them in the cafes….but of course what they don’t do is get overly excited at how cheap and delicious the local wines are and drink three more bottles every evening.

My stomach is beginning to look like the warm, squishy, doughy croissants, chocolatines and baguettes that I have been filling it daily with. How do the French stay so slim?

I have barely done any reading, let alone writing pas que mes enfants have been here with me and it’s been one big dedication to mass intoxication that we took a little too seriously. Luckily whilst they were here I was designated driver and owing to my anxiety of driving on the other side of the road, I didn’t drink whilst we were all out together enjoying fine French cuisine…just speed drank on our return to our little gite in an effort to catch up.

I am garlic and rosé infused and very happy.

More to follow when I have re-engaged my brain cells.

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