In 1992 we left England and moved into a substantial Maison de Maitre in the Loire Valley. It had been empty for thirteen years and hence a major renovation project would be necessary. We lived, surrounded by rubble, throughout the ‘doing up’ process, working on one room at a time. There were a lot of rooms. I wrote, occasionally, for various magazines and recently came across part of an article I was commissioned to write at that time. It was 33 years ago so only this (very) small fragment has survived. It’s an observation piece, basically a sort of ‘view from our terrace’ reminiscence, but on reading it again I was taken back in time to those early days as expats where our leisure hours were ample compensation for the endless days of backbreaking labour. Rural France, at the height of summer, invariably evokes a bucolic reminder of my childhood, long before the distraction of mobile phones and video games when ‘playing out’ in the sunshine was what made summer special.

Midsummer in the Loire Valley

On the terrace, a basking lizard lies motionless on the warm stone, Heat haze dances and shimmers on the distant copse of trees. The pair of feral cats that have taken up residence in our barn have by now picked their sunbathing spots with care and settled down for a hard day’s basking. They’re not inclined to be friendly with newly arrived foreign humans, but have struck up a good relationship with Thelma and Louise, the baby goats we’re fostering. 

A miner bee reverses carefully from its perfectly round hole in the earth, before drifting away on its daily duties. Beyond the hedge, the fields of dried maize rustle like parchment, reminiscent of ancient deeds in a lawyer’s office. Elusive patches of shade were in short supply and the sun’s rays were brutal enough to make abandonment of work essential. Heat hung in the air like a thick velvet curtain, except that even if we’re possible to push it aside and step through, there would be another identical curtain waiting on the other side.

A pair of soaring buzzards, supported by outstretched wings, swoop and glide in the clear air, their button eyes alert for the slightest movement on the ground beneath. One drops vertically, to earth, its cruel hooked beak and talons ending the life of some unfortunate creature, then soaring upwards with its prey and re-joining its mate, swirling wings taut, as they ride the thermal hot up-drafts from the hot earth below.

Buzzards, hawks, kestrels and other birds of prey are common sights in the huge open skies and perched on fence posts and tree branches. Decimated by DDT and other pesticides in England, they flourish here. A pair of buzzards roost in a tree at the edge of our land. Viewed through binoculars, they are a spectacular sight.

A small pond is home to croaking frogs, serenading each other on warm evenings. Herons, standing motionless, still as statues often visit the pond by the water. Taking off, they fly directly over the hedge bordering our back garden.