The 31st of July, Chalabre

Last evening I was caught in a fix of melancholy, people had left, the Prince of the chateau for London, as well as a girl who had caught my heart. It was the last day of July, a signal to me that I had half-navigated the year, and that now the length of days would gently wane more and more from the warm clime to the colder.

We had had a long day preparing the chateau to be photographed. A young and enterprising chap came with his tripod and drone. After polishing the windows of the Orangerie for the final shoot, I sliced an orange, poured the last of my red wine into three large glasses and reached for the tonic – a damn alright, but bastardised form of Sangria.

I delivered the beverages to my hosts, Steven and Gabrielle (the owners of the chateau) and we sat on the second terrace under the bay tree, by the topiary and listened to the industrious buzz of the bumble bees, amorous around the lavender.

This is how we orbit in this place, drinking and laughing, absorbing the soft sunlight. Steven had to go back to Australia the following day, another separation which weighed on our hearts. We joked about the rapport of the town; how the French octogenarians of the village take a keen interest in the glamour of Gabrielle and how she almost has to physically fend them off.

I take so much pleasure in the company of my elders, I was often surprised how young they can be. More and more I have grown accustomed to having their friendship, and more and more my prejudices from my youth, against older generations, has waned. This is an essence of Chalabre; people transcend their age and become friends nonetheless, who laugh and have fun in the most simplest ways. We are all young here.

Later that evening, as the twilight set in and colours blued and deepened, I put a candle on the table on the terrace. A ring at the door told of our plumber and his fiancee’s arrival. They have come to discuss their wedding to be had at the chateau next year.

Vincent was bestowed by Angus the sobriquet, ‘Monsieur Incroyable’, and Angus made sure that the mayor knew it, and as a result the whole village began to know it and use it. For even though he is an amazing and sought after plumber, it is an incroyable occasion if he ever turns up, or at all, on time. And just to form that evening, he arrived at the chateau an hour or so late.

Vincent and Alexia are a wonderful couple. He is a Parisian and she was born and raised in Mirepoix down the valley. In a bartering exchange for bathrooms and waste pipes to be difficultly installed into the far reaching places of the chateau, Steven and Gabrielle have given the chateau for their wedding.

Angus, my master, friend and butler of the chateau prepared dinner for us all. In the flicker of candle light smoke swirled, the barbecue sizzled in the background and the odd bug attended by our ears in the air. We chattered in French, with increasing confidence. Food was served and all debated the logistics of the feast and party to come in a year’s time.

Because Steve was to leave the next day, Angus and Gabrielle dictated to me that I must ensure to his glass being full at all times, lest he get on a plane to Australia without a splitting headache. Sufficiently imbibed, the Witcher’s Wine was summon from the dank cellar on a spur of excitement. I sought it out and found the label-less bottle, thick and green, from Spain, of a rare grape variety. I pulled the cork and a delicious husky odour of tannin and of funginess, not of being corked, wafted into my nostrils. I was to drink well, Steve very well.

Cuts of pork, ball mozzarellas and tomatoes and basil, creamy potato salad, harissa, sriracha. We talk of truite, or trout, that Vincent fishes from the cool mountain rivers. I had some at a recent marché nocturne in Leran, with rice and curry sauce. I listened to Vincent and Alexia speaking French and found myself completely involved in the dialogue and surprised how much I have learnt and how far I have come.

I peeled off around eleven and went into the village to the house of my old hosts. There another dinner party was revelling, but with calvados rather than wine. They poured me a glass of the orange-gold liquid and I found the words coming for conversation. And after all but two of us had gone to bed, Barbara my dear friend and I chatted away before the fireless fire, with the windows open for that crisp night air, and found peace in it all.

Now the next day has passed and life goes on.