The House of the Hill

Spring is a wonderful time to be alive in the Poitou Charentes. The days lengthen, the sun shines and the trees are full of blossom. Within a few short days our lives had returned to our normal routine. Markets on Tuesdays and Saturdays, and potting and gardening for the rest of the week. Oliver continued to have problems with the kiln. We realised that the air bubbles left in his extraordinary artworks were causing the breakages. I took a commission for a complete dining set, and Ollie sold a piece. Not a 9600 Euro piece; that was too much to hope for, but enough to settle our debts from our time off work.

Life felt comfortable and safe again, though the cats' absence left an unfillable gap.

We at last began to socialise with our French neighbours, who started dropping by with small presents, mainly garden produce, having heard about our misfortunes. The impossibility of communicating intelligently through lack of a common language seemed to be largely assuaged by the sharing of a verre de rouge. We began to feel part of a community. I picked up my French language textbooks again, and Ollie caused great hilarity by teaching the men how to swear in English.

Madame Gentil popped by with a pair of tiny kittens, who instantly took to Sam, and forever after slept in his basket, snuggled up for warmth. Our little family was complete again. Life was good.