It has been no hardship to have an empty chateau a few feet away. The other evening, I wandered around taking photos at golden hour. The place still fascinates me. We’ve even been inside now, with the owner—we didn’t break in, I promise. He guided us around the ground floor via phone torch, illuminating dark corners and saying things like, ‘Watch out for that broken floorboard!’. There was just enough dilapidated furniture to suggest a human presence, once upon a time, and the experience of standing on the bottom floor and gazing all the way up at the roof was enough to set my imagination on fire. (The experience of making sure that my four year old didn’t fall down the hole to the cellar in the dark, on the other hand, was enough to deliver a small panic attack.)

But this might be the last chance to roam around the property relatively freely because the chateau has now been sold. Soon we will have neighbours, proper neighbours, and we hope for good ones who won’t mind the noise of our children and who love buying vegetables. I for one will try to be friendly and not too jealous that the chateau does not belong to us. We have not been overly welcoming to some of the potential buyers. The man wanting to run weddings remotely from the big city received our least charming smiles, and almost zero useful information.

Now that the chateau is changing hands I find myself even more interested in its past, so much so that I recently spent a couple of hours perusing the Haute Garonne archives website to try to find out more. You can say what you want about Napoleon, but he did get everyone to make accurate maps, all in the interests of fair taxation, of course. Here are two maps of our area from 1823 and our property is there, still named the same thing, still sitting next to the river. (Aren’t these maps beautiful? Works of art, carefully preserved for 200 years. I can’t even preserve my shopping list between my house and the supermarket.) Interestingly, there is only one property marked at our place—so is it the chateau or the farmhouse? I always assumed the chateau came first but it’s shaped more like the farmhouse, and this has shifted all the possibilities. Instead of some pompous landowner deigning to build a property for his country farmer, maybe the country farmer made good and put his extra cash into a posh house next door. Who knows? I am so captured by it all.

Sometimes I wish I had a time machine, or a chemical substance that could whisk me back to the past, like the protagonist of Daphne Du Maurier’s The House on The Strand. It didn’t end too well for him, but I can feel the lure of going back, of understanding the way that people used to live. Is it because the past feels alive, while the future is a frightening unknown, potentially full of disconnecting technology and wildfire summers? Could be. Either way, my next book is definitely going to be historical fiction.

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The only problem is that disappearing off on adventures is not at all compatible with a) living on a vegetable farm and b) raising small children. This is peak time for Farmer Joe, with all of the most beautiful vegetables putting on their best show, and (for now) a holiday is out of the question. Plus, for some reason, I’m always surprised that a holiday for four which includes a clean and safe place to stay is somehow a lot more expensive that hostel hopping for one in Mexico where my main expense was micheladas.

So, when people asked me what I was doing this summer, I answered, “I’m staying HOME doing all the CHILDCARE” as though I had been assigned to a prison camp in Siberia rather than a picturesque farm in the South of France. But, although the holidays have been intense in terms of meal preparation, magna tiles towers, and endless rounds of “let’s tidy up”, there has been plenty to delight in this August (beyond my two beautiful kids), so here’s a little list:

1. Harvesting cherry tomatoes

Harvesting beans is tough work, but harvesting cherry tomatoes is deeply satisfying. Maybe it’s because you find yourself enveloped in a tomato tunnel, the scent of the fruit all around you. Maybe it’s because you get to choose lots of different coloured tomatoes and gather the rainbow. Maybe it’s because a cherry tomato salad with cucumber, olives, feta and a sweet vinaigrette is the perfect summer meal.

2. Early morning rising

The heatwaves have been oppressive this year and most sensible people use the cool mornings to catch up on the sleep that they missed overnight while lying in a pit of sweat battling mosquitoes.

Not I! I’ve been setting my alarm early and sneaking to the office to write. It is a perfect time of day. Even if I only get 40 minutes in before someone wakes up, I feel so much calmer knowing that I’ve done something that brings me so much joy and which is only for me. This was really inspired by Bekah Rowe Writes who has been sharing photos of her own efforts to wake up early to write.

3. Accessorising the early morning rising

On the second day of my morning writing, I realised that I was spending five precious writing minutes going downstairs to make tea. Enter: the upstairs tea station. My budget was 10€ and I found the perfect secondhand yellow tea kettle to suit my needs. It makes the tea for you! I didn’t know this existed but, even after a tough night with a teething babe, I find myself excited to dash to the office in the dark and get that little machine bubbling. Sometimes the best things in life are free; sometimes they are 6€ from Recobrada.

4. Getting your five-a-day in every meal

Summer eating on a veg farm is THE BEST. Every meal features salads, melons, ratatouille. I’ve even become newly addicted to gazpacho (not homemade, sorry Farmer Joe). Sneaking vegetables into meals for my fussy child is a breeze. I want to hold on to the glory of these days for when it is midwinter and we are eating yet another squash.

5. Siestas

I’ve been compensating for the early starts with a twenty-minute snooze after lunch. Twenty minutes is just enough for me to feel more energised for the afternoon and beat the 4pm lull.

One small issue: I’m a bit worried that when I go back to school my students will find me slumped on my desk snoring each day at the start of their 2pm lesson. “Er Miss? Wake up?! It’s time for us to study Shakespeare and we can’t wait!” (Maybe that part is restricted to my dreams.)

6. Nights OUT

We don’t go out much in the evenings these days (bedtime routine blah blah) but in the past two weeks we’ve been to a guingette (English translation: open air cafe, but it’s more like an outdoor food hall with pretty tablecloths and live music), a soirée à la piscine, a funfair. Dinner out then a hurried brush of teeth and change before getting into the car so the kids can fall asleep on the way home is exactly what summer is all about. We are going OUT!

7. Watching my baby learn to walk

My second son turned 1 this month and has now started to toddle across open spaces, oblivious to things like toys or tables. The most he has taken is about eight steps in a row, but it’s the expression of excitement, the waving arms and the total pride as he collapses into our waiting arms that makes this such a joy. People keep telling me that it will be much harder when he can walk, but I love seeing how much fun he is having.

8. Visitors

We’ve had lots of visitors this summer and it has made it feel much more like a holiday. It definitely helps me to see the farm through their eyes and realise how incredibly lucky we are to live here (I do feel it most of the time, but sometimes I get too busy complaining...). I really mean it when I say that ALL ARE WELCOME. (Well, maybe not YOU, stranger on the internet.)

9. Panaché

I’ve given up drinking alcohol mostly because, since having children, drinking even a sip of wine leaves me with the equivalent hangover of having had a bottle of tequila in my twenties. This is a bit disappointing in France, where the wine is spectacular, and also in summer, when a beer goes nicely with every occasion. Luckily, I have the solution: Panaché, aka a very weak shandy, or beer-flavoured lemonade. It is the perfect summer drink for a non-drinker (the alcohol content is less than 0.05%). A nice cold Panaché in the garden helps counter the feeling that one is about to spontaneously combust with the heat.

(Alas, I cannot add a photo of Panaché, because we have drunk it all.)

10. The Count of Monte Cristo

I decided it was finally time to read Alexandre Dumas’ blockbuster this summer. I’m about halfway through and it. is. so. exciting. Every morning I come down to breakfast and recount the story of what I read the night before. (”Why did the monsieur go to prison, Mama? What does it mean to be jealous?”) It actually makes me excited enough to go to bed that I stop scrolling on my phone (and as a result am now averaging two weeks to reply to messages, sorry everyone).

Remembering how much I bloody love reading has been greatly inspired by Naomi Alderman’s Couch to 5k Reading Challenge. Highly recommended if you’d like a bit more reading in your life!

I hope you are finding some things to delight in this August!

Thank you so much for reading. It means the world.

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This is said with absolutely no shade towards my wonderful parents. Now that I am a parent myself, I wonder almost daily how I can be expected to provide yet another nutritious meal for my children, which more often than not, they do not eat. Five fruit and veg? Iron? Protein? Three times a day? Can’t we just eat toast? When I lived on my own, all I ate was different things on toast and, when I was feeling fancy, the meal outlined above. It was great.

Anyway, my childhood diet did not give me massive exposure to a wide variety of vegetables. In fact, when I worked part-time in Asda as a teenager, my nightmare was people bringing unlabelled vegetables through the tills. I would scrabble through the paper trying to find the right code to put into the till at the same time as trying to figure out exactly what I was holding in my hand. I remember clutching a vegetable that looked particularly exotic and almost tearfully asking the customer what it was. They raised their eyebrows. ‘That’s a leek, love.’

This week, at nearly 40 years of age, I have discovered green beans. I mean, I did already know about green beans. I’ve been serving them to my kids for ages. It’s so easy to open the can and whack them into a pan. They love them and they pair perfectly with fish fingers. But this week I discovered real, fresh green beans, and now I am obsessed.

In keeping with my promise to do more at the farm, I wheeled the baby out in the pram a few mornings ago, and asked Farmer Joe to put me to work. ‘You could harvest the beans,’ he said, handing me a basket.

‘Easy,’ I replied. ‘Give me two baskets. I’ll fill them both.’

‘You’ve only got twenty minutes. Why don’t you just start with one?’

No problem, thought I. In twenty minutes, that red basket would be overflowing with precious green beans. I placed myself into a crouch position, the baby stationed nearby to watch his mother hard at work. I stayed in that position for approximately two minutes before needing to stand. Oof, clearly I needed to do more squats. Never mind, down I went for another two minutes to search for good-sized beans at the same time as not breaking the plant. The crouching got old fast and I started bending from the waist, finally understanding why Farmer Joe is always complaining about back pain.

Reader, in twenty minutes, I managed to fill two-thirds of one basket, and I was spent. Massive respect to all people who harvest vegetables for a living. They are hard as nails.

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My little basket was sold almost immediately and we harvested a load more for lunch. My mother-in-law steamed them for a while then put them in a pan with olive oil, garlic, salt and pepper. They were unbelievably delicious. I can’t be sure, but I think the baby ate about twenty-five.

So, I get it now. Beans are the best. And these ones tasted even better because I helped to get them from plant to plate. Yum! Maybe I should help out more often.

Below the paywall, Farmer Joe gave me his top tips about growing green beans. At first, he said, ‘Put them in soil and water them’, but with a bit of gentle pressure (twenty seconds under the force of my death stare), it turns out that he actually knows quite a lot about how to get them to thrive. Thank you so much for reading. If you’d like to upgrade your subscription and get access to more incredibly useful information, or if you’d like to buy me a cheeky cuppa, the buttons are below.

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1. Breeze past the chateau: ‘Gorgeous, isn’t it? Not ours though. Maybe one day. Can you believe it’s never had electricity?’

2. Stop at the tractor and, depending on the age of the visitor, have a quick ride and photo opportunity. You’d think it would only be small children who want to sit up on a tractor, but a surprising number of grown-ups have leapt at the chance.

3. Wave towards the caravans: ‘We’re going to make those into holiday accommodation one day. They just need a good clean. What’s that? Yes, there is wisteria growing into the windows. That just adds to the charm.’

4. Marvel at the land at the back, understand that it actually belongs to us, and then realise how peculiar the concept of owning land is. As if we could own all this life and all this beauty. Gesture towards the forest at the back, assuring the visitor that it’s a great walk for another day.

5. Trip down to the river, trying not to slide in the mud, and spend at least five minutes making silly noises under the echoey bridge. ‘It’s le weekend!’ our son shouts in perfect franglais.

6. Come back up to the house, motioning towards the four à pain: ‘We’ll make bread in there one day. The bread in France is notoriously rubbish…’

7. Settle in for a glass of wine/a cup of tea and say, ‘So yeah, that’s our farm’ with a shrug that hopefully conveys gratitude and pride without smugness.

We don’t really do the full tour anymore. Even though this place is still a daily miracle, it has gradually become normal to us and we are also a bit more tired now that there are two kids to run after. But, when we did do it, the response to the tour was always, invariably and without fail: ‘This place has so much potential.’

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And it is true. It is more than a farm. For me, it’s a place of such peace and creativity. As soon as I saw it, I started dreaming up elaborate fantasies of hosting writers and people in the arts here. I felt that anyone who sat in this place for even a few minutes couldn’t help but be inspired.

Creative writing retreats are a long way in the future. I don’t think we are ready to host people in a house that only has hot water on one side, where every last centimetre is replete with clutter. But to keep the dream alive, this week I am having my very own creative writing retreat right here at the farm.

Every day, I choose the least messy location in the house and I commit to doing at least four hours of writing. Today, I am sitting at the table in the garden in front of the house, enjoying a breeze from the comically-sized desk fan that I ordered thinking it would be much bigger. The temperature is warm but not disgusting. I can see grapes ripening in the sun on the vine, the wooden bench that I love sitting in the middle of the straw-coloured grass. And I am writing: my novel, this Substack, even a short story as part of an Arvon challenge (although this has gone in a very strange and surprising direction). My rules for this retreat are as follows: I must do the writing first, before I am distracted by pesky things like laundry and tidying up. My phone must be a very long way away. And every break I take must involve walking over to the farm and picking a vegetable or two.

Sure, it would be nice to be on a proper retreat. I recently discovered a writer’s hotel that is only 33 minutes from where I live, and I can’t pretend that having all my meals served to me and being able to take casual Pilates breaks doesn’t appeal. But, for now, this ‘at home writing residency’ (okay, fancy pants) feels like exactly what I need.

Are you a person in the arts? Where do you get your inspiration? Have you ever been on a retreat? Tell me all about it!

Chatty posts like these will always be free here at Escape to La Ferme. Behind the paywall, I’m going to do a series called Noob Goes Gardening (still not fixed on the name…) where I will share some of my learnings about growing vegetables and keeping plants alive! If either of these sound like your cup of tea, please do subscribe or upgrade:

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Thank you so much for reading. It is a pleasure to share a slice of our little life with all of you!

Much, much later, I moved to Singapore and bought myself a bookshelf full of plants. I meticulously took photos of each one and spent time looking up exactly how to care for them all, setting reminders on my phone. Wednesday: water the spider plant. Friday: add fertiliser. Sunday: cry into a pillow because the spider plant seems to be wilting. Tuesday: hold elaborate funeral for the spider plant, then the fern, then the rest. Five months later: clear up plant carcasses having finally accepted that they are never coming back.

For my birthday last year, at the start of February, my mother-in-law bought me a beautiful camellia (side note: for my 38th birthday, I received mugs, candles, a plant— and I was delighted with all of them. Welcome to the middle ages). She told me that it is one of the only flowers to bloom in winter. It was a beautiful sentiment, a lovely idea… and a week later, the camellia was dead.

The only planting success I have ever had was an aloe vera plant that someone gave me which I accidentally left at school over the summer holidays. I came back in September to find that it had not only survived, but it had reproduced several times. But given that the guidance for aloe vera care is lots of light and little water, and the plant had been left on a windowsill, can we really call this an achievement?

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So I suppose I am the opposite of green-fingered (red-toed?). Fine. I have other talents, and I have accepted that me and gardening just do not mix. And this was all well and good, until my boyfriend created a vegetable farm in front of the kitchen window.

Now, I get asked questions like:

• Have you put shade over your tomatoes this year?

• What variety of cucumber have you planted?

• What is the best organic fertiliser?

And I answer each of these questions with a shrug and a speedy change of subject. I might live on a farm but that doesn’t mean I know stuff. The truth is that I know nothing. I may be a little more au fait with how to make various vegetables taste good, but when it comes to actually growing the things out of the ground, I am embarrassed to say that I am utterly clueless. For the past two years, I have watched Farmer Joe toil and create magic in an empty field, and I have had very little to do with it.

Well, no more. I have decided that I am going to dedicate some of my limited free time to learning the ropes. Farmer Joe can look forward to finding me standing in the greenhouse in my secondhand lobster wellies with holes in the bottom, a notebook in hand, eager to assist and learn. (It should be noted that when I shared this idea with Farmer Joe, his very first, and quickly stifled, reaction was a deep, heartfelt sigh, which he managed to cover up with a really quite French shrug and the words, ‘If you like.’ But I’m sure he will be grateful for my enthusiasm in the end.)

Even though I’m a teacher and therefore a terrible student, I’m excited for this. I’ll report back my findings to you and if you, too, are a planting noob, follow along and let’s learn together. We’ll be growing beans in no time or maybe, at the very least, not actively murdering them. We live in hope.

Thank you so much for reading. It means the world!

I have turned on my paywall and plan to put the rest of this ‘series’ behind it. If you’d like to read more of A Dummies Guide to Gardening (just one idea for the name, other suggestions are welcome), you can upgrade your subscription below. Or, if you’d like to follow along with other adventures, please hit the subscribe button.

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The interviews took place in hotel rooms which was frankly bizarre. I perched on sofas next to freshly-made beds trying not to think about the fact that the people interviewing me had probably cleaned their teeth in their pants right here, a few hours before. I was nervous but determined and by the end of the second day, I had been offered a job in Arusha, Tanzania.

I’d spent a happy few months bouncing around East Africa with friends a few years before, ostensibly building schools, but the idea that I would be any good on a building site was completely laughable. The local builders in Uganda gave us tasks like, ‘Flatten this bit of ground with this tool’, while they did the much more difficult job of actually constructing buildings. I had loved Uganda, and Kenya, and all I knew of Tanzania was the island of Zanzibar... so obviously I loved that too.

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Arusha was a place that somehow felt unfamiliar and like home at the same time. When I arrived in 2015, election year, power cuts were so frequent that solar lamps and candles became a must-have accessory. I was given a kitten. I taught many of my classes outside on the grass. I learnt about snakes and spiders, I drank beer like it was water, and every day felt alive with possibility and adventure.

It is difficult to explain how much living in Arusha changed me. Before, I had a very fixed idea of what my life should be—or at least of what a happy life looked like. Living in Tanzania took all my assumptions and shook them out of my pockets, ready to be trampled underfoot. I spent so much time outside, seeing amazing things, having fun with my friends. I was so lucky. I missed the place and the people so much when I left, although thankfully Farmer Joe lived there too, so we can always happily reminisce together, filling our home with kitenge and keepsakes, and teaching our kids some random bits of Swahili. (I drink less beer now though, and for that, my liver is thankful.)

At the beginning of the month, some dear friends from Arusha came to visit us at the farm. Last time we were together—six years ago!—we were still irresponsible and bonkers. Now we have four children between us. But we picked up the conversation and laughed our heads off as always, as though we were together only yesterday. And it was like a little bit of the wildness of Tanzania came with them, and we embraced it and let a bit of our wildness out too. The kids climbed trees and painted rocks and stripped off their clothes to play in their compost. The grown-ups remembered all the good times and made new memories together. It was a wonderful weekend. It was just so fun.

I realised that this is part of the reason I love the farm. We can be a bit wild in this place that we are slowly trying, not too hard, to tame. Somehow, even though it is work, it is also a respite from the responsibilities of being a grown-up. Sometimes I am overwhelmed by the scale of the project. We dream up ideas for the future as though our to-do list isn’t already full. But we also take time to breathe in the wilds of nature and feel oh-so-grateful for this place we get to look after. Slowly, but surely.

Do you think our definition of ‘going wild’ inevitably shifts as we get older? Or are we all just the same mad teenagers we always were, searching for the right context to let out our nuttiness? Tell me, tell me, I must know.

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I recently had a great series of French lessons with a Russian teacher. She spoke beautiful French and was very understanding about the fact that I never did my homework. When I told her where we lived, her eyes lit up. ‘Ahhh. That village is the home of the Papogay.’ She proceeded to give me an explanation, in French, and I thought I understood her very well. This is what I thought she said: ‘Papogay is a traditional event that goes back centuries. Men of the village gather to try to shoot a bird. Women are not allowed to take part.’ In my mind, I thought, hmm okay. Sexist clay pigeon shooting. I think I’ll skip that.

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Then my son joined the village school and at the start of April, signs went up. ‘Come and take part in Papogay. Sign up below. Only six hours of rehearsals required. Costumes provided.’ Costumes provided? Ah, maybe special gloves for the shooting? Protective goggles? And six hours of rehearsals? I imagined target practice much like American cops do in the movies because if there’s one thing guns need, it’s more glamorisation. This whole thing really didn’t sound like my cup of tea.

But somewhere along the way, Papogay as a celebration of medieval times entered my consciousness. The costumes in question were fabulous velvet bodices, and britches, and yellow caps. And that really is my cup of tea. I started to feel excited. Maybe we could just go along and take a peek at the clothes. That sounded like a great way to spend a Sunday.

It was only when the programme for Papogay popped into our letterbox, that I finally understood that it was archery, not clay pigeon shooting. The aim of the game was to shoot a wooden parrot down from the top of a very high post. That really did sound more interesting. I imagined an archery competition in the style of Disney’s Robin Hood, where each competitor stepped forward one at a time to take their turn, and the mayor sat at the side being entertained by it all, and everyone rooted for the underdog, and I tried to understand how a cartoon fox could somehow be sexy. I should probably tell you that Papogay is pronounced ‘Papo-guy’, so I thought the winner would be crowned THE Papo-Guy of 2026 and would be able to live in glory for the rest of the year. ‘Look, it’s the Papo-Guy! Give him a free drink! Give him a pat on the back!’

Sunday rolled round and, having missed day 1 and 2 of the Papogay festival, we were keen to spend the whole final day there. Unfortunately, our fridge had other ideas and chose this exact moment to give up the ghost. A few stressful hours later, having stowed all our cheese in a coolbox, we caught the very tail end of the parade: everyone in amazing costumes playing medieval instruments and having a whale of a time. Someone had created an enormous model of the village cathedral that went round on wheels and, leading the charge, the Papogay car: a green and yellow Citreon C3 bedecked with images of wooden parrots and arrows. I am so disappointed that we didn’t see the whole thing. I fully intend to sign up for all six hours of rehearsals next year.

We did see the competition, however. Again, it was not what I expected. The archers (all men, alas) gathered under a vast wooden pole and, on cue, shot their arrows again and again at that wooden parrot. They missed. And missed. And missed again. This went on for about twenty minutes. At some point, a real bird entered the fray and started playing chicken with the archers, swooping ever closer to death, the spiralling away at the last minute, cawing, ‘Ha ha! You can’t catch me!’ (Anthropomorphism is irresistible. Forgive me).

Twenty minutes later, the wooden parrot – the real Papogay – still sat at the top of the post and the archers gave up. That was round 1. Luckily, incongruously, there was a funfair right next to this spectacle so everyone watching could load up on churros and Orangina between rounds and then try to hook ducks and win quad bikes (this might have just been the four-year-olds in our party).

Finally, three rounds later, which were really quite compelling, which you found yourself watching with baited breath, even forgetting to shove churros into your mouth, somebody knocked the Papogay to the ground. I have no comprehension of how anyone could tell whose arrow it was – there must have been hundreds flying through the air – but apparently it’s an honour system, and a person declares himself the winner, and this is never contested. So, congratulations to this year’s winner: the Papo-Guy of the South-West!

Life comes at you fast, doesn’t it? I never would have thought that this would be my idea of a good time, but I loved it all. The clash of medieval fare with flashing funfair lights. The gathering of people of all ages, under the rain, to stare breathlessly at arrows in the same way that we all stare at our smartphones. It was just fun. I like all the random things that human beings do for entertainment.

So, what do you say? Who’s coming to join the festivities next year? We can promise a space to pitch your tent at the farm and I might even buy you some churros if you’re lucky.

I’m not ready to put up a paywall, but if you enjoy reading about this funny little life and you feel like buying me a cuppa, I’d love you forever. No, really.

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I’m an English teacher who is writing a novel in the slithers of time that remain after tending to my children, a falling-apart farmhouse, and students who are a little too dedicated to ChatGPT. This is not my first novel, it is my third, and I’ve done some good learning on the first two. I think this one might actually be publishable, if I ever finish it... Am I a walking cliché?

I blame Little Women. The 1949 film version was one of my comforts growing up. I rewound that videotape again and again, and then read all four of Louisa May Alcott’s books in quick succession. Then I felt like I had insider knowledge (spoiler alert… although the books were published 158 years ago) – Meg ends up widowed! Jo opens a school! – and could smugly lord it over any supposed ‘fans’ who had only seen the film.

Anyway, I digress. The reason why I have a warped view of writing a book is because, in every on-screen version of Little Women, Jo March, surely everyone’s favourite ahead-of-her-time, knows-her-own-mind heroine, is shown writing her book in one easy burst, overnight, the beautiful prose tumbling from her like a waterfall. Planning? Editing? No need! She writes from the heart and that is all that matters.

It turns out that actually writing a novel is not like that. It is fun though. On Monday, I put the baby down for a nap and ran to my desk. I’m in the editing stages now, and I had one particular paragraph that I needed to improve. I sipped my tea, gazed out of the window at the chateau silhouetted against the blue sky, and got to work. Fifteen minutes later, having grappled with the phrasing of the first sentence, I glanced out of the window again. The sky had turned a deep shade of grey and the wind was whipping all of the trees into a frenzy. ‘That’s weird,’ I thought, then got back to work again.

So engrossed was I that it was only when the first hailstones began to bang against the glass that I noticed the storm outside. I picked up my phone to find a message from Farmer Joe: l’orage arrive il faut tout fermer!! (the storm is coming, we need to close everything!) I ran around the house but Farmer Joe had done all of the shutting of things so I just watched as the hail battered the grass outside, the greenhouse, and the newly planted cherry tomatoes. There was nothing for it but to sit down at my desk again. This was fine until the hailstones started bouncing down the chimney and into my lap.

Half an hour later we received an email from my eldest’s school. Subject line: URGENT. The force of the hail was so strong in the village that parts of the school’s roof had caved in! Luckily, nobody was hurt – most of the four year olds just found it extra exciting when it started raining indoors. The damage was sufficient that it made the news the next day. The report included the line: ‘most children have stayed home today, but we are able to offer provision for those students whose parents are working’. Our son was one of the only children there. Oops.

It feels like every week in the South of France brings us a new weather event, or perhaps I’m just paying more attention to them now that all of our money is invested in garlic bulbs. Next time I write – in June? Or maybe even again in May? – I will tell you all about Papogay, a unique, historical, very odd event that took place in our village last weekend. Let’s just say, I never thought archery could be so exciting.

A few people — not just my lovely Mum — have said that they would like to pay for my writing. This is so extraordinarily generous and, while I’m not writing often enough to put up a paywall, if you would like to buy me a cuppa I would be beyond delighted!

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What’s the best car you’ve ever had? Mine was a sandy-coloured 1977 Land Rover that I drove over road and dirt track in Tanzania. It was so beautiful. Yes, it broke down almost daily. Yes, passengers in the back were frequently dizzied by petrol fumes. Yes, it was a safari car that was not reliable enough to take to a safari park. But where others smelled burning rubber, I smelled only adventure. When I climbed up into the driver’s seat of a car both taller and older than me, I felt like I could go anywhere. And I did, until the next time the engine cut out/the handbrake stopped working/the axle broke/I drove into a ditch/I had a flat tyre (I’m just throwing examples into the air. Of course I didn’t drive my car into a ditch in my own driveway. That would just be silly).

Nowadays, I drive a far more sensible Citroen C3 in that particular shade of mint-green that everyone painted their kitchens a few years ago. It is both more powerful and more reliable than my Landy ever was, and I bomb up and down the motorway in it, fearlessly taking on those giant European lorries, leaving them all in the dust. Recently (six months ago), the car started to make some interesting noises, and Farmer Joe and I finally decided in the last couple of weeks that it might just be time to get to the garage. ‘We were supposed to get this maintained every 30,000 kilometres. So it should have been done at least twice by now.’ Farmer Joe shook his head sadly. ‘We are really not serious people.’

My immediate reaction to this statement was obviously to take huge offense. Excuse ME, I am a PARENT. I am a TEACHER. I read BOOKS. My sense of humour leaves me whenever I haven’t slept enough, which is ALL THE TIME. Of course I am a serious person. Then I realised that Farmer Joe had gifted me with a great new statement with which to mock him. We forgot to buy milk? We are not serious people. We left the washing in the machine overnight? So not serious. We ate fish fingers for dinner for the third time this week? Seriously, get serious.

However, something happened at the farm recently which made me realise that perhaps we really aren’t serious people after all. That something was Storm Nils. One Wednesday afternoon, Farmer Joe hurried inside. ‘There’s a storm coming,’ he said. ‘We need to get ready.’ (Visions of all of us in a storm shelter, as in Twister, flooded my mind. Would one of us end up battling a tornado to get the data to better predict future tornadoes? We would need a pick-up truck and a renegade approach to authority. But we don’t have a storm shelter. And God, I love that film.)

Here is a list of what we decided to do to secure the farm against the upcoming storm:

1. Close all of the shutters

2. Put away all of the garden furniture

3. Put the bins inside

4. Secure the greenhouse doors with ropes

5. Park the cars in a safe place

And here is a list of what we actually did:

1. Make dinner

2. Put children to bed

3. Go to bed ourselves

I was woken at 2am by one of the shutters banging against the wall outside. A nice repetitive thud approximately every 30 seconds. The wind howled around us and I felt simultaneously so grateful to be cocooned in safety with my children and so worried about the damage the storm would bring. The next morning, I woke early, diligently readying myself for work. The storm hadn’t really died down; driving at any kind of speed was going to be interesting. I steeled myself against the lashings of rain, wind and the debris of recycling that had flown out of the unsecured bin across the grass in front of the house. Feeling like Wonder Woman, I stopped the car halfway down the drive to pick up an errant branch that blocked my path… then noticed the enormous pine that was blocking me in. I wasn’t going to work. None of us were going anywhere.

The tree surgeons came and we were freed by the evening. It took a few days to feel normal again. At least five trees fell around the farm and the greenhouse doors ended up at a funny twisted angle. The river flooded and half of our little footpath was under water. We learned our lesson. When it comes to Mother Nature, one must get serious. Well, I say that, but a week later there was another storm, not damaging enough to get a name, but powerful enough to throw one of the shutters that we had failed to close from the first floor to the ground below. It’s quite something when you open the door in the morning and see a piece of your house in your garden.

So yes, perhaps nobody would describe us as serious people. Sleep-deprived and reckless and optimistic might sum it up better. But who wants to be serious anyway? Are YOU a serious person? Or do you, too, coast along hoping for the best? Or have you achieved the ultimate goal which is, of course, the happy medium? Let me know.

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I’ve been reading a lot about how our modern lives are too convenient and how we should add more friction to make things feel more meaningful. It occurs to me that we might have unwittingly created the most meaningful life possible, because this lovely old farmhouse is chocked full of friction in winter. Hot water on only one side of the house, non-existent insulation, and a delicate electrical balance which makes it impossible to run the kettle, toaster and dishwasher at the same time. Our mornings have become far more patient… and we now favour porridge over toast. I promise I’m not complaining though, because between the daily irritations that make us go grrr, there are candyfloss pink skies and the infinite line of snowy Pyrenees marking every evening drive.

Another source of friction has been the latest protest on the highway by the farmers of France, unhappy about the EU-Mercosur agreement. Since the start of December, literally hundreds of tractors have been parked on the highway surrounded by towering hay bales, blocking our way onto the road and towards Toulouse. Highly inconvenient? Yes. Impressive in the sheer scale and organisation of it all? Also yes. The farmers set up a wedding marquee style tent in between the tractors and basically said, ‘Good luck getting us to move.’ They even had merchandise: ‘Ultras de l’A64’ printed on hats and tshirts. This morning all of the tractors had gone and I flew along the highway in half the time really going full throttle, singing along to showtunes… but I kind of missed the fierce farmer protest. There’s always that tension between supporting our brothers and sisters in agriculture and really wanting to get to work on time. Friction vs convenience vs our democratic right to protest? Something like that.

Anyway this is a speedy missive because once the baby wakes we plan to head outside to harvest some vegetables for dinner before the sun goes down. It’s kale and napa cabbage on the menu for the adults tonight and almost certainly pasta pesto for the fussy toddler (we keep casually offering vegetables, like sure, whatever, it’s no skin off our nose whether you eat them or not… and a couple of nights ago he ate a load of butternut squash while we looked on in amazement, before he downed tools and told me it was disgusting. So maybe that’s… progress?!) I’m very aware that I haven’t done an update since October, and I wonder if I still have anyone reading? And if so, what would you like to hear more about in 2026? Thank you, as ever, for your attention and for the love you show this friction-filled farm life.

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The mornings are cold, but cold in the shrug-on-a-sheepskin-gilet kind of way, and not the attempt-to-defrost-your-car-in-the-dark-while-swearing-under-your-breath-as-your-fingers-turn-blue kind of way. By 10am, the sky is a perfect cloudless shade of blue. Everything at the farm is green. It is the moment to be outside, unencumbered by mosquitoes and miraculously sweat-free. It is the moment when farmer fashion comes into its own: loose jeans and checked shirts and wellies and bobble hats, all of which bring a certain je ne sais quoi to a weird postpartum body.

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Because yes, avid readers (hi, Mum!) may have noticed that Escape to La Ferme has escaped off the page for the last few months while we have been busy welcoming a new family member. He is really cute and I’m finding it all infinitely easier the second time around. Perhaps it’s because when people say ‘everything is a phase’ with your first baby, you listen but you don’t really believe it. One minute you’re crying into your cup of tea, searching for sleep regressions on Mumsnet, wondering if you’ll ever feel like yourself again, and the next minute your child is making jokes and is obsessed with firefighters and has enough of an attention span to watch a whole Pixar film. Knowing that nothing lasts forever – and really knowing it – has helped me to lean into the joyful moments this time without quite as much sleep-deprived despair.

And speaking of nothing lasting forever, after eating a tomato salad everyday for four months, the summer vegetables on the farm are finally coming to an end. Farewell courgettes, the easiest vegetable to sneak into a picky toddler’s meal. Goodbye aubergines, once a perfect match for the famous emoji, now small and strangely shaped. And a big fat WELCOME to the best leaf of them all, kale.

Kale is not a thing round these parts. Everyone goes mad for chard and spinach but kale, alas, has been absent from my plate for five whole years. Until now.

I first discovered kale ten years ago when I was living in London. Food and drink trend in London. In 2015, everyone was drinking Aperol spritz and everyone was eating kale (what are the trends now? Londoners, please comment below). I ate it every night with a side of halloumi, feeling like the picture of good health, and sure that it undid the copious amount of cheap wine in my diet.

When my boyfriend asked what he should grow at the farm, therefore, kale was my number one choice. And now, hello October, the glorious season of kale. We’ve had creamy kale and mushroom pasta, kale cannelloni, kale chips, tempura kale. I cannot get enough. It looks so beautiful when it’s growing too. Forget flowers, give me a bunch of kale. (Incidentally, I once had a very short-lived romance with an Australian called Kale. Apparently his parents couldn’t decide between Dale and Kyle. You’ll be glad to know the dalliance didn’t last long enough to affect my love of the vegetable.) We have even managed to upsell a few bunches to our customers and now they, too, are obsessed.

So here we are, in Autumn, bouncing babies, and eating kale by the pile. I have zero complaints. What are your favourite things about Autumn? What are you looking forward to eating? If you’re not a fan of the cooler months, just know – nothing lasts forever, and soon enough Creme Egg season will be rolling around again. For now, it’s nice to be back.

So I thought, in this heady summer season, and in this in-between moment, I would share the recipe for homemade vinaigrette. This is not a revolutionary recipe (it’s not even my recipe) and I am not a chef, but it is something that I make almost every day at this time of year which lifts our (admittedly delicious) farm-grown vegetables from magnifique to ‘oh my god I have never tasted tomatoes like this before’. Do not eat a tomato and feta salad without this vinaigrette, and make sure you have fresh baguette to mop up the sauce. The baguette is an integral part of this experience.

Step 1: Put 9 tablespoons of olive oil into a jar. Make sure the jar has a lid. An old Bonne Maman jar gives a lovely French touch.

Step 2: Add 3 tablespoons of balsamic vinegar into said jar. I’m pretty sure they all taste the same but we like the Maille brand.

Step 3: Add 1 tablespoon of mustard to the mix. Any mustard will do, but if you vary them you get a nice change in flavour for every vinaigrette. The best thing about the Maille mustards is that you can use the pots as water glasses afterwards.

Step 4: Add 1 tablespoon of honey. Lick the spoon.

Step 5: Add salt and pepper, put the lid on, and give it all a good shake. When I first learnt to make this vinaigrette (in Summer 2020 on my second night in France), I used to whisk it ever so carefully, but I have learnt that this is unnecessary. Just make sure you shake it until it thickens, then enjoy!

Normal service will resume when this new baby makes an appearance… maybe… Until then, happy eating! Feel free to share any summer recipes in the comments, especially those that are as easy as this one.

For example, as part of my AS Level (do those even still exist?!), we studied the French Revolution. It wasn't enough for my teacher that we simply read the sources of eyewitnesses. Oh no, we became the eyewitnesses. Every member of the class was given a key historical figure to embody. We were interviewed about our 'experiences' on camera, and often mourned when we were unceremoniously guillotined. It brought it all to life for us, making all that philosophy and bloodshed real to the extent that I am still obsessed by the stories of that time and still have multiple novel ideas floating around my head based on romantic young revolutionaries or that guy who was investigating what happened when people got decapitated and noticed that the eyes still moved even once the head was severed.

It is fitting, then, that now I live in France and am able to celebrate la Fête Nationale on 14th July, aka Bastille Day. On this day, France commemorates the storming of the Bastille, which kickstarted that whole revolution/republic thing (don't mention Emperor Napoleon, okay? They got there in the end). Despite having been here for five years, this is my first year making it out in the evening to celebrate with the fireworks, the first two years being full of Covid, the next two years being full of a baby.

By some miracle, the three year old took a two-hour nap in the afternoon and was full of la pêche for the evening. With some friends, we went to an event in the next village which was all about raising money to become a tiers lieu, which is a community space. This association plans to renovate an old pigsty and put on concerts and workshops and all sorts. It was the perfect evening out for a person aged 38. It was like a very mini festival with live music, a mad selection of musical instruments, painting and linograph, and, of course, a huge variety of fancy dress clothes to strike your best pose. My son picked up a pair of Spider Man sunglasses that he found difficult to put down again, and my boyfriend spent the evening in several different wigs. There was a delicious vegetarian meal (I didn't know that phrase existed in France) of daal and salad served on china plates that we all duly washed up at the end. The kids ran everywhere barefoot. It was heaven.

Afterwards, before heading to Paris to eat the rich, we went to watch the fireworks, or 'les travaux de feu' as my bilingual boy likes to say. These fireworks were a tad scary for the toddlers in the group, but I bloody loved them. Bonfire Night is on par with creme eggs for UK things that I really miss. It was a perfect evening in the countryside. Nothing too crazy. Just people of all ages coming together to celebrate, and reiterating the fact that France needs no excuse for another public holiday.

Until next time, vive la révolution!

PS. I wrote this on my phone for a change. Please forgive any funny formatting.

The summer holidays have brought the gift of time and, thank goodness, a slight reduction in temperature. I’ve been able to go up to the loft without spontaneous combustion and have been digging out all the baby paraphernalia that I had pushed out of my mind – the breast pump, the baby clothes, the giant frilly crib gifted to us by my mother-in-law. And I’ve been writing 1000 words a day for the novel. My eldest continues to suggest baby names which range from Caca (French for ‘poo’) to Giraffe, and my middle now feels like someone has strapped a bowling ball to it, one of the ones that I can barely lift at the bowling alley.

Ironically, my time of rest and recuperation, during which I get back a semblance of the person I was BC (before-child), is one of the busiest times of the year for Farmer Joe, aka my boyfriend. The rate of growth of the vegetables is just astonishing. Coeur de boeuf tomatoes go from green to red during the course of the day and it is possible for us to eat a cucumber each at every meal, and still have boxes and boxes to sell. The aubergines are beautiful, violet and black, and I’m grating a courgette into every recipe to get my son eating vegetables. (It takes all my resolve not to shout at the end of dinner, ‘Ha! So you DO like vegetables!’)

On Sunday, Farmer Joe packed up all of his vegetables and went to the local market to see what he could sell. It’s a small market: three vegetable stalls, a man selling goats cheese, a fantastic-looking patisserie, a butcher and, of course, a van selling ‘nems’ (Spring rolls) which seems to feature at all markets round this way. My boyfriend was placed directly next to his competitor, another organic farmer from the village, but the vibe was not too cutthroat. There’s enough organic veg for everyone, I suppose.

My son and I decided to go and eat our breakfast in the café next door in order to support our champion farmer (also, we miss no opportunities for chocolatine with chocolat chaud, we know what we’re doing). I’m not officially allowed to serve on the stall, but watching my son run between breakfast and Papa’s table was a delight. I have memories of selling things at the market with my own dad when I was a child. There’s something special about the enterprise of it all, about the interaction between people, about the satisfaction of a sale.

Since then, we’ve opened up a little market at our house, and yesterday evening about seven cars rolled through to pick up their veg. My favourite was the family of three who bought nine cucumbers, saying that they would eat one each just for dessert. That’s impressive. We’re still very much on ice cream here. It’s a nice little spot, under the shade of a cedar tree, with the chateau in view. Come one, come all, we can’t wait to see you!

The current temperature is 36 degrees. It’s not the worst the canicule (heatwave) can get. We have had whole summers where the temperature goes over 40. But it’s pretty warm, and shows no sign of slowing down as we head into July.

Without further ado, then, here are my top tips for surviving a heatwave in the South of France:

1. Open your windows wide, first thing in the morning, and let the cool air rush in. Then close them tight along with the shutters, and sit in the dark.

This is something I did not understand when I first arrived in France. I kept throwing the windows open in the afternoon to let in some cold air… but cold air didn’t exist. I used to sit there bathed in my own sweat, wondering when I would start to cool down.

2. Accept that the morning is the only possible time to get things done.

Once the heat arrives, behave like a cat, and sleep as much as you can. Don’t try to be productive. And if you have to do one of those pesky obligatory tasks like going to work, make sure the AC in your car is working.

3. Embrace the indoor life and be thankful for thick walls.

What a great time to catch up on your reading/correspondence/tidying up. Going outside is not an option, unless you want to live permanently in a sauna. If your boyfriend happens to be a farmer, steer well clear of his greenhouse.

4. Give up any intention of looking good (this one especially applies if you are eight months pregnant).

Make-up? More like melt-off. Hairstyle? Scraped back and nowhere near the face and neck. Think ‘mum bun’, extreme sweat version. Clothing? As minimal as possible. I’m finding the cycling shorts/baggy t-shirt combination to be ideal right now, but I’m not sure I’m quite mastering the iconic 80s Diana look. The thought of a sweatshirt makes me feel ill.

5. Seek out air-conditioned places, especially if you have small children.

Because staying inside all day only works if you’re on your own. If you value your sanity, you need to give your kids a change of scene. All hail, then, supermarkets, shopping centres, and soft plays. Oh, and trains. The trains are blissfully cold – but the metro in Toulouse is not.

6. Don’t try to go to bed until it’s not hot anymore.

All this week, I’ve been climbing into bed at 10pm and tossing and turning until well past midnight, cursing my hair, my giant baby bump, and the lack of breeze going through the room. I should have just stayed up and written this newsletter. Or the novel. Or watched trash TV. Literally anything except spending two hours thinking that I was too hot to get to sleep.

In a few months, I’ll be lighting the fires again and fantasising about sunshine, so please don’t think this is a newsletter of complaint. It is more of an observation that even though this happens every year, I am still surprised by it. Seasons give life rhythm, don’t they? I can’t really complain about that.

And on that note, thank you to the lovely friends who checked in with me last week after my post about my constant hormonal crying. I am totally fine and, with your encouragement, I did eat that Easter chocolate. It was delicious.

If you’ve enjoyed reading this, please feel free to tap the little heart. It would make my sweaty little soul so happy.

I’m at the stage of pregnancy where I am contemplating eating my son’s Easter chocolate. We squirreled it up onto a high shelf back in April, to ‘save for later’, and he has conveniently forgotten all about it. Every day it calls to me, a little bunny with the voice of temptation. However, unfortunately, my son has not forgotten the fact that I polished off his Christmas chocolate back in December, while he was sleeping, in a similar moment of pregnancy craving. He will still regularly say, six months later, ‘Remember when you ate my chocolate Santa?’ and shake his head in adject disappointment. It’s really a conundrum. Might seeing the wrapper in the bin jog his memory? Should I therefore eat it and hide the wrapper? Or should I be a good mother and let it languish on the shelf until next Easter? Decisions, decisions.

The thing we have not stopped eating is cucumbers. I reckon we are averaging two a day. I’ve had recipes for salads, pickles and soups, but so far have just been eating them raw, relishing the hydration in a heatwave. Sales of the cucumbers begin in earnest today. As I write, my boyfriend is putting the signboard at the top of the driveway. I have visions of cars snaking their way out into the road, their owners desperate for a bargain-price organic cucumber. The manager of the sushi restaurant in the next village screeching in, chucking a load of cucumbers into the back of a van. The local snail farm proprietor stampeding towards the greenhouse and taking away boxes and boxes. I may be over-egging this. I’ll let you know.

The primary emotion I’ve been feeling this week is overwhelm. There is just so much going on: vegetables being harvested, school reports being written, babies being grown, baby clothes being washed. I remember all the mamas in Tanzania that I used to see on my way to work, who strapped their babies to their backs, and cracked on with their day, usually doing something very physical under a burning sun, and I think to myself, I am weak. And pregnancy heightens everything. My feelings hang around annoyingly at the top of my throat, and everything makes me cry. My son had a taster session at school this week: I cried. A student was a tiny bit ruder than usual: I cried. I was hungry: I cried. What is the evolutionary function of all these tears? I have not yet reached the depths of my previous pregnancy, in which I sobbed in the car listening to ‘I’ll Make A Man Out Of You’ from Mulan, a song which is not at all sad. It might not be far off though.

Where there are more tears, there is also more fatigue, and more joy. I find myself breathing in all of the scents of the farm in rapture: jasmine that I did not plant, mint leaves (for the cucumbers, obviously), and tomato plants in the greenhouse that are now taller than me. I lie in bed with insomnia, every position less comfortable than the last, and I calm myself back to sleep with the sounds of the river rushing past. Summer in Toulouse is scorching, and I am thankful for the thick walls of our house that keep us cool. I am thankful for all of it: this surprising, overwhelming, fantastic rollercoaster of a life.

‘Sorry, I can’t concentrate on what you’re saying. I need to take my jumper off.’

‘Blimey.’ Fans self with hand dramatically. ‘I’m sweating like mad.’

These are just a few of the choice phrases I have uttered over the past couple of weeks, each time I have entered our greenhouse. I think they confirm two things: 1. Regulating one’s body temperature becomes a key concern in pregnancy, especially when one is feeling so spectacularly pregnant, like running-out-of-clothes-that-fit pregnant, and there are still two months to go. 2. The fact that I am perpetually surprised by the greenhouse being hot suggests that I have not properly internalised the purpose of a greenhouse. This may be something I need to address.

Anyway, the greenhouse has worked its magic, and last night my son ran into the kitchen holding a cucumber in front of him as though he had been tasked with carrying the Olympic torch. Our very first harvest. I asked him whether he was planning to eat some with us at dinner but, being three and anti-green things unless they are disguised under a layer of pesto, he refused with a look of disgust, as if to say, ‘Look, I support this vegetable farm and everything, but you’re mad if you expect me to actually eat the vegetables. I’m not a masochist.’ The grown-ups in the family did eat the cucumber though and, I promise I’m not just saying this, it was truly the best cucumber I have ever eaten. The satisfying crunch, the much-needed hydration, the smell that was so cucumber-y it was almost artificial. My dad always tells me that food tastes better when it’s prepared with love. Well, this cucumber was grown with love by all three of us (and my mum, who planted the seedlings) and it showed.

I should probably mention that during this exchange, my son was scratching his arms, not frantically, but in a leisurely sort of way. That is because he has contracted chickenpox, apparently for the second time, although I didn’t think that was possible. At the dinner table, he announced proudly, ‘J’ai une boite de poule.’ For a few seconds we had no idea what he was on about, then it became clear. ‘I have a chicken box.’ I keep saying that I need to write down all this fabulous franglais for posterity, so let’s record this one here. It’s one of my favourite things he’s ever said, along with, ‘C’est me!’ and, ‘On play au foot-ballon?’ Parental love is amazing because even covered with red spots, I still think he’s the cutest boy in the world.

So, we have cucumbers, and a chicken box, and the start of a heatwave (but just a mild one, only 35 degrees), interspersed with storms that bring relief and soften the ground for more planting. My boyfriend has adapted quickly to the wild farmer style: a moustache, a muddy face, and one ancient kneepad to make the kneeling easier. And the vegetables are on their way. Our next question is: where will we sell them? And, if we end up with a glut, how many cucumbers can one family (let’s be honest, one couple, because the toddler won’t touch them) realistically eat? I’m here for any cucumber recipes that you might wish to share.

Digging the holes was sweaty, repetitive work – and marked a huge change for my boyfriend after three years in an office job. He would come in in the evenings covered in mud, looking proud. ‘Six down.’ ‘I’ve done seventeen now.’ ‘Nearly there.’ He was also exhausted. The whole thing reminded me of Louis Sachar’s Holes, a fabulous book that I’ve taught so many times I’ve resolved never to read it again.

After the holes, next it was mounting the metal frame. This required reinforcements, and various family members moved in for a few days to lend a hand. We even had friends visit from the mountains for a weekend to help out. Three of them worked all day in the rain one Sunday and made huge progress, then all ran inside in their pants to take showers. We repaid them with pizza and raclette.

I shared with a friend that I was worried about whether the greenhouse would go up ‘in time’ for the seedlings to benefit this year. Putting the plastic over the frame was tricky and time-consuming, and required at least four people, depending on the wind that day. She said, ‘You just need to make it a community event. Invite all our local friends to help, and feed them at the end.’ And that’s exactly what happened.

Four friends plus my father-in-law arrived ready to get the plastic on and made pretty fast work of it, despite one minor injury that required stitches, eek. They were fed slabs of meat and cold beer and our eternal gratitude. And, all of a sudden, we had a greenhouse. There only remained a few finishing touches: putting on the windows and doors so that the place could be aired, and building tables on which to place 1000 seedlings.

Today, we ate our lunch in the greenhouse, sitting at one of those tables. I gazed around at all of the life inside, thinking that just a couple of months ago, this was an overgrown field. I suppose this is what it means to make a dream a reality: one step at a time, but every step is essential, and a project like this is only possible with the support of the people around you. Merci mille fois to everyone who lent a hand, and of course to everyone who takes the time to read this newsletter. It means the world.

When I lived in Singapore, weather was also an event. Arriving in the autumn of 2019, the city-state was struck down by The Haze (please say this in the same way that you’d say The Blob – run, don’t walk). ‘Climate patterns’ rendered the air thick, grey and choking. The air pollution was so bad that we were recommended to stay indoors. Instead, I went wakeboarding with friends. Wakeboarding is already a frightening experience for someone as lacking in coordination as I am, but when you can’t see the boat that’s tugging you along, it takes on a whole new dimension of fear.

Here in France, we also unexpectedly lived through a weather event: an actual tornado (in July!) that ripped up trees and left a trail of destruction in its wake. I remember looking out of the window and thinking, ‘Why is someone chucking buckets of water at our house?’ When the storm cleared, we thanked our lucky stars that the tree had fallen onto the road and not onto our car. It all felt very apocalyptic.

Last weekend, we had what I would term a weather happening. A storm with fantastic forked lightning that endured for several hours and hail that thwacked against our windows (although thankfully not as emphatically as the marble-sized hailstones in Paris). The look of sheer panic on my boyfriend’s face as he watched the hail batter the newly erected greenhouse was a sight to behold. The greenhouse weathered the storm and the seedlings live to fight another day!

The only minor disaster was being so busy watching the hail that we forgot about our leaking chimneys. Once we remembered, we leapt into action with buckets and towels, kicking toys out of the way in our haste. At one point, my boyfriend told me, ‘Oh there are hailstones coming into the office upstairs,’ and we chuckled, because you have to really, don’t you? In the face of nature and weather and the things we can’t really control. In this wonderful, leaky old house that we love.

What might the next weather event be? I’m praying for my 6-month pregnant self that it won’t be another 40-degree canicule in August (there’s a new French word for you if you’re learning). Whatever it is, I’ll be sure to let you know. Thanks for being here!

When my son was born, we converted the office into a nursery, with my desk still tucked in on one side. But, consumed by motherhood, I wrote less, and then I got a full-time job in a school, and the writing petered out (just googled the etymology of this phrase, well worth falling down the rabbit hole for). And then we moved to the farm.

Our farm came with several outbuildings, which we now refer to by the names that were handwritten on the bunch of keys that came with our ownership. There’s the ‘porcherie’, where the pigs used to live, which is now home to bikes and garden tools and many, many metal lanterns. There’s the ‘écurie’, a double garage aka my boyfriend’s fantasy dwelling place (until he built the greenhouse, more on that next week), replete with tools and tiles and a concrete mixer. There’s ‘Mazout’, a little garage with yet more farming equipment, and the ‘dernier local vers caravans’, the less imaginatively named home of the sit-on mower. Then there’s the ‘four à pain’.

Those that are well versed in French will know that this means ‘bread oven’. Believe it or not, there is a room attached to the porcherie which holds a huge bread oven. Not only that, there is also everything you could ever need to make bread, right down to the paper bags for the baguettes, and the metal tool with a long handle for placing baked goodies in and out of the oven. The internet cannot tell me the name of this tool – any ideas?

As soon as I saw the bread oven room which, incidentally, is the only one of the outbuildings with electricity and running water, I began to fantasise about setting up my office in there. I pictured myself heading there in pyjamas early in the morning (clearly I have a lot of early morning fantasies which ignore the fact that I hardly ever sleep, see this post) and writing my novels in the peace of nature, undisturbed and inspired.

Unfortunately, the bread oven room is also home to rodents and bats and, because it has no heating, it is not a very practical office in the winter. One day, when we get round to it, I will clean it out, and warm myself with the heat of freshly baked baguettes in the morning, and write like there is no tomorrow. For now, I have settled for a new little desk from Emmaus plonked under the window in the spare room and it is here that I hope to write 6,000 words a week on my new novel, and make it to 80,000 before another son arrives and turns our world upside down, again, in the best way. This is week one and I’m 5,000 words in. Wish me luck!

PS I promised you coypu/ragondin and wrote about writing instead. Here’s a video of the eight (!) babies living under the tractor. How long will it be before we are overrun?