I've posted a fair bit here about our home in France with images both beautiful and desperate - for example, the state of the garden after our long absences during the covid pandemic. The above is a view from the terrace up the garden, lightly dusted with frost. There won't be any more, because we have sold up, after 23 years. Those long absences, plus the restrictions imposed by Brexit, not to mention we aren't getting any younger and an acre is a lot to look after when you can only visit from time to time, all contributed to our decision. It was the moment to go, and we are thankful that our buyers are younger, French, live locally, and have plans for the house which will improve it, I'm sure. It's a strange feeling that it's no longer ours, and of course we are sad, but there's also a sense of relief to have relinquished the responsibility. I won't be wondering, in winters when the weather is fierce, whether the big old trees are still standing, or whether there are tiles off the garage roof.
Our love affair with France isn't over, though. In a few months we'll be back for a few days, hoping to catch sight of the glorious field of irises in Monet's garden. And having made many dear friends there we will certainly be visiting. But for now, after a bit of a breathing space, we'll be looking out for new adventures.
