Often when Jim and I are sitting in the garden on a summer evening after dinner, alone or with friends, he’ll pronounce “I want this night to never end!”. Summer evenings in France were made for him. They start at six and it doesn’t get dark until eleven. I’m thinking of that because this is our last evening in the Perigord. It will end.
It dawned on me at noon in barely-a-tiny town where we painted in the field behind an eleventh century church that might seat fifty. I was walking the intersection while Grif finished(discovering a painter/sculptor next door as well as a house to rent for the summer) when the bells started to peal and I realized I wouldn’t be hearing that in a few days. A homesick sort of melancholy pulsed in my veins… Happily, the lunch spot I’d scouted out didn’t disappoint and my cassoulet a well as the hilltop hamlet tour of honey-colored stone houses afterwards buoyed my spirits and restored my grateful heart.
After a siesta, we toured a magical garden maybe a mile up the hill from here which Libby, a Brit, mind you, had recommended. Now as I sit at a happy blue garden table sipping the last of a Quercy rosé, the doves are lulling the town into the long gloaming hours of our last evening in the Perigord. For this summer, at least.