July . . .

. . . came and went as quickly as the sunflowers in Serge's field alongside our chemin rural.

Warm, but not too warm, gardening became an all day activity, not just something squeezed into early mornings and late evenings.  So I weeded and dug and planted and half wrote blogs in my head that I never wrote down:

. . . like the one about the new electricity line that now brings power straight down from the road and not meandering across our neighbour's field, so the lights no longer dim when we turn on a kettle;

. . . and the rampant woodworm in our "only three years old" oak beams that Martyn found when lime washing the cottage, which meant I spent a week dressed like something from a CSI TV series - white hooded gown, pink marigold gloves, mask - while I sprayed every inch of every beam with some noxious substance in a squeezy bottle;

. . . and the hoopoe and the hares and the fluttery baby magpies who took ownership of our drive, so setting off in the car anywhere became like participation in a wildlife programme;

. . . and learning what it means to try and arrange a visa if we invite someone who is not European to stay with us and the "joys" of French bureaucracy and the helpfulness of our local mayor's office;

. . . and the fun of watching a recording of the opening ceremony of the Olympics the day after (which meant we could skip the slow bits and - on everyone's advice - turn off before Paul McCartney. Shame, he was once my favourite Beatle).