(As usual) I leave late for the Friday morning photography group up at Eymet and I speed across empty countryside in the Batmobile, racing to get there on time. Just me and the mist, as the road swoops up the hills to the small bastide villages, each hidden in its blanket of grey cloud, then down again onto the plain between, where roadside trees loom out of the swirling cold drizzle.
Our mild winter has disappeared and the cottage heating struggles to keep us warm against the dank weather. In the evening we huddle on the sofa - human, dog, human, dog - and watch bad movies and much-repeated favourite shows.
Late at night, as I walk Vita and Bertie down to the stream, my breath wafts in the light of the torch, caught white against a myriad moving grey droplets. We cannot see beyond the edge of the torchlight and we are alone in the world.
In the 1970's I lived in Brazil and I wrote home to my mother in the UK every week. Those letters became the story of my life there. In 2007 I moved to south west France. Not quite sure where "home" is, I have no family left in the UK. If I did, these words would be my letters home, capturing the first impressions of my life here, to share, enjoy and perhaps re-read in years to come.