The village is quiet now that the visitors have left: the Ladies from Rennes - usually three, this year only two - whose arrival is marked by the opening of shutters and the appearance of gardeners, left a week ago. I'm not sure if they'll be back for Christmas in this, the village in which they were born and raised, and where the young 'Tonton Paul' used to pull their pigtails and steal kisses. He dated one of the sisters in his senior years. Now he's in a care home and suffering dementia, I wonder if he recalls those childhood days? I hope so.
And the Germans have gone. They spent some time buying plastic boxes in which to store their linens and summer clothes because mice had taken up residence and made nests of their sheets and shorts. We have a lot of mice here in the countryside. At this time of year they begin to invade the house, I've already caught and killed one that was in the bedroom, bold as brass, sauntering across my rug. The dog will dispatch them, given the chance, he's a good mouser, but usually it's left to my battery-operated trap that lures them with peanut butter and kills them quickly.
I'd let the mice share the house if they weren't so destructive and dangerous to the wiring. And if they didn't breed so efficiently. And if they had better bladder control: mice pee constantly, they're not healthy housemates.
Dr H. was here for a whole month in July but even then we didn't get to spend many days out together. She's renovating a little house outside the village and works hard while the weather is good. When she takes time off she's my Activity Buddy - we kayak at the Pink Granite Coast, we've planned to ride horses Western-style, we explore and have adventures. Useful to have a doctor as a companion if the adventures are a little too wild at times.
And the two English holiday homes were only occupied briefly. One is, apparently, for sale, the owners don't have the time to come to France as often as they did when their children were small and I haven't seen them at all since I returned last year. The other owners have begun to take holidays in Spain in the winter: it's not always easy to relax and rest when there's work to be done on your house. And illnesses are taking their toll.
The lovely lady from Holland departed with her daughter last weekend. J. flew in to Rennes so that she could share the long drive back with her mum.
I like it when R. is here.
I like it when all of the Summer People are here. The village is lively and there's not so much a buzz, more a gentle hum, when they're back. And, of course, Summer People mean summer weather and all the pleasures that brings.
This week the swallows are also preparing to leave.
I watch every morning to see if they're still here. Happily this year they raised three broods and all their babies, and those of the house martins, are fully-fledged and ready to set off on their migration south. Some years a baby is left behind. It's sad but it's nature: if the parents remain to feed it all three will not survive the winter. Better the breeding adults leave with the flock and return net year to raise more young.
The Summer People have left, the swallows are gathering, but there are still sunny days left to enjoy another day of swimming at Trégastel, another morning walking the Sentier des Douaniers followed by an al fresco lunch at Ploumanac'h.
And maybe an Indian Summer to ripen the butternut squashes that have taken over the potager?
