The mistral is up, blowing the pile of poo which will probably never be a terrace each and every which way.
I am close to tears thinking our terrace will not be built, ever. I am starting to phone Monsieur Reymond’s wife more often than I should and she is starting to feel less sorry for me. Tonight she passed me onto the man himself:
“Tomorrow I will come with another and we will have it all ‘propre’ by the evening”
We will, as usual, clear the space and wait for the phantom maçon not to come.
Meanwhile, we are having to take our wild pleasures not in planting pots of winter savoury and chervil on the new stone terrace wall as we had hoped, but inside, away from the vicious wind, in large bowls of pêches blanches, rose de provence apricots and reine claude plums (bought by me to inspire the muse who is starting to relax her grip as we wind down towards our holiday), and lunching on bowls of coco beans animated by market bought rather than terrace grown (humph) herbs with a wedge of goat’s cheese creaming them up….
On Thursday we leave for Skye. A week’s camping and walking in Glenbrittle followed by three days of fluffy towels and lobster and watching the seals from the windows of the infamous restaurant with rooms, The Three Chimneys. Though Julian loves a good hotel, for me the basic 'good hotel' is too much like touring so this is our solution: Total wild followed by total luxury. There will probably also be total midges and total rain but that’s what the gear’s all about.