FRENCH VILLAGE LIFE
Easter Weekend in My French Garden
No chocolate bunny or bells with wings
My daughter, calling from the States, wanted to know if we had plans for the Easter weekend. I told her mine involved the garden. It’s just waking up. Honeysuckle that I thought hadn’t survived the winter proved me wrong with a reassuring show of bright green leaves, roses in bud, pastel-coloured hyacinths perfuming the air.
We live on the third floor of an old village house. French floors are numbered differently so it’s considered the deuxième étage (2nd floor). Like most of the houses on the main village streets, ours was built back in the days when animals were kept in the first-floor caves — spaces now used as storage or converted to garages.
Gardens were utilitarian — the source of food for the table, rather than a place for outside relaxation. Modern convenience was probably not the first planning consideration. Gardens on our street are all located across the road.
This means that from my third/second-floor garret, I descend three flights of stairs, cross the road, descend a few steps, open a wooden gate and go down more steps — all a bit of a challenge when carrying plates, glasses, food, and drink for an alfresco meal.
