Busy Doing Nothing

 When considering where to live in France all those fifteen years ago we ruled out places like Provence partly because it's expensive but also because it's too hot and dry in summer - or so we thought.

It is therefore disconcerting to learn that tomorrow Bordeaux (just "up the road" from us) is likely to be the hottest place in France, if not the whole of Europe - somewhere in the forties.

Depending which weather site I look at we are likely to be anywhere between 38°C and 43°C. Our guests, who have been braving the pool side every day this week, admit they will probably be hiding indoors, which we have been doing for most of this week. 

Every few evenings I head down to the cottage to water the pots and the border alongside the lawn, the grass now brittle straw  The underground water tank has only an inch or so left in the bottom, so I trail hose pipes from the outside tap up at the house. Every bowl of used washing up water now goes on the plants. Our guests offer to keep an eye on anything drooping between my visits and I gratefully accept. I'm glad that a couple of months back I abandoned any idea of a veg patch, however small.

Tod walks Bertie at seven in the morning.  I strim a bit more of the gully at the side of our farm track and apart from a bit of shopping, that is it for the day.

We catch up with news on the internet, watch series on Netflix and i-player and sit it out. Tuesday now promises to be a delightfully cool thirty degrees. We look forward to a meal out on some balmy evening and our guests admit they are bored with doing nothing.

May these days be exceptional. If not, a move to a cooler part of France - Provence anyone? - begins to be appealing.