stories and lentils

I've written a bit about our intentions to simplify our lives or perhaps more accurately to live a little slower and with less. These past few weeks we have been living this. Some days we all get up early and accompany Florent to the village and some days we stay in the woods in the tent. When I stay in the woods my days repeat themselves one after another; caring for children, washing (pots, plates, clothes, bodies...), cooking, short walks, play. When I go to the village with Florent I have to occupy myself and the children outside, the entire day, apart from when the library is open which we can never use for long because Ira likes to destroy things, especially books and local photo exhibitions, the kind we find in a library. So we try to catch fish in the river, scout out fruit trees, play in the park, explore footpaths, bike ride, sit under the covered market and draw, play out imagninary games with whatever there is to hand. Some of this sounds dreamy and some...

It's not heat per se, it's the kind of heat that only exists in a tent under the sun. That's the kind of heat I am wondering if I should have allowed into our lives. A lot of people questioned the wisdom of camping for a summer under the sun in southern France and I wish I had listened a little better! On a brighter note, the last few days have brought torrential downpours, the ground under the tent has become soft clay, moulding to the shapes of our feet. The sound of raindrops beating onto the roof of the tent has replaced the hiss of the cicadas and there's that feeling of unrivalled cosyness. Florent and I suspect we are more suited to wet camping holidys in Pembrokeshire. The kind where half the tent blows away in the night and you persevere through the next day with the planned coastal walk, freezing to the bone. Finally, with the family strapped into the car, there are the audible sighs of relief and the comforting glow of Port Talbot industry to the right as th...