Finally, after a mere fifteen years, I plucked up the courage to invite our farming neighbours round for "aperos".
It was during the summer and they were heading into Leclerc and I was heading out. After we'd briefly chatted and as we said our goodbyes, I (to my own surprise) said "You must come round for aperos" and almost immediately regretted it - after all what would we talk about? But then she turned and gave me the most beatific smile and I knew I'd done the right thing.
As they are farmers, we agreed nothing would happen 'til after the harvest, which has long gone. And finally, I realised we could not defer the evening any longer and we arranged for a Saturday two weeks ago. In fact, that evening never happened - his very elderly mother, who had been unhappily in a home, died that morning, so far from having our evening we found ourselves on the following Wednesday at a funeral in the tiny local church and we moved our get-together to last night.
For nearly three years throughout Covid we've had no visitors. And for much of that time Vita became increasingly frail. By the end, the house had become her sanctuary and kennel - mats and towels all over the place, a bucket and mop to hand for accidents, the kitchen door left open so she could head out for a comfort break whenever she needed. So, there was not much point hoovering and dusting and we lived contentedly (most of the time) with the mess. But now, we were about to have guests!
A frantic week was spent removing cobwebs, chasing down dust bunnies, washing corners where Vita cleaned her messy wet beard when she'd drunk half her water bowl and carried most of it across the kitchen floor. In contrast Bertie is such a clean drinker.
Alongside the manic house cleaning was an anxiety about what to get for food and drink? We have never done aperos. What would they be expecting? So I turned to the forum I use all the time when I am struggling with French mores and our life here and over several days the advice rolled in with some very fancy suggestions for what to make and serve.
The advice that stuck was: "I’d err on the side of too much rather than too little". So I erred.
Crudités with four types of dip, followed by beautifully soft, plump prunes wrapped in wafer-thin streaky bacon, bite-sized chipolatas (herby ones from Lidls and spicy merguez) plus the “toasts” with paté she brought, followed by my mini quiches and some tiny hot cheesy /filo things I got from Lidls freezer cabinet, followed by home-made mince pies (and she asked for the recipe, so I sent her home with the last four).
They stayed until gone ten and would have stayed longer but for the fact she had a bad cold and was beginning to flag, so I packed them off home. Tod was worried about not understanding but the conversation flowed freely, not least because there is so much we do not know about each other and they can tell us so much about our old house and its surroundings. We learnt (among many other things), that he leaves a tiny part of his field un-cultivated because the great grandparents of the family who used to own this house are buried there in (unmarked, probably protestant) graves.
And the beatific smile from her when I invited them? She has been wanting to see inside our house for years. We are the third English family to own it in the last forty years or so and the local community have watched it being transformed from a near ruin to a habitable family home (it's still a work in progress of course).
She went home content - four mince pies and an evening inside the house she wanted to know. I need not have worried about our evening together.
