Spirit of the Place – Part 2 The man first came to this place when he was thirteen. The chateau and vineyards had been muddling through a period of benign neglect since the death of his great uncle a decade prior, and now the buildings, lawns, flower beds, gardens, woods, even the river’s cliff – all slept around him like characters under a hundred years’ spell. He planted himself on the terrace over the Dordogne, braced by the allée of centurion linden trees and looked down at the water. The neglect was oddly comforting. Like camouflage. Like a tarnished brooch, […]
Up at the tomb this morning, bearing the first daffodils of Spring. The indefatigable maitresse de maison planted the bulbs years ago, but she was rarely here when they popped up. March has always been a month of happy birthdays in our family, but it took on a different tone last year when Maman et Papa came to their final rest here. I like to think they would have been pleased to see their granddaughters standing in the March sunshine, enormous bouquets of yellow in their arms; glorious, indefatigable daffodils to honor their memory.