Monday 5 August 2013

In the corner of a foreign field...

IF I should die, think only this of me.
 That there's some corner of a foreign field that is for ever England. 
 The Soldier,Rupert Brooke
***


I've been in France.

 Yes I know, ME traveling, amazing isn't it?.

A mad panic of selling virtually half my summer wardrobe on eBay to fund the last minute flights, getting a passport after 17 years (£81 now ?!! crikey) and sorting out dog sitters, chicken shutter-inners and other peoples gardens.
 Madness. 
There was a reason for all this though and it wasn't good, sadly not a holiday.
My Daddy passed away.
 He had been very, very poorly after an operation that didn't go to plan.
I spent a few days over in scorching heat in the corner of a foreign field surrounded by acres of beautiful sunflowers, grape vines and old, old houses with sunbleached shutters in gorgeous shades of blue and green.
 I was with my lovely family and although it was an incredibly sad time it was also some of the best days I've spent with my brother, sisters and my brave mum in a very long time. Just us, no husbands, no kids.
Laughing, chatting, hugging.
 
  When something tragic happens, your emotions are all over the place and they are certainly heightened so funny things become hilarious and little bit sad things, become very sad.
I kept thinking my dad would go mad at us mucking about in the pool, swimming with the dog and talking in the garden until the early hours,watching amazing thunderstorms way past bedtime, exploding meteors and reminiscing about when we were kids but he'd of loved the fact that we all pulled together to look after mum and their house that is in the middle of no-where off the beaten track near Duras (and my mum doesn't drive!)
My brother and I took charge of the vast gardens and my sisters, the house and the cooking. I have never gardened in such heat (36 in the shade!) and never in my pyjamas that were ringing wet by lunchtime! The ground was like concrete, which I later found out when I managed to stick a hand fork through my gloves and finger instead.
 yowww!

 
I remember my dad best from when I was little, we'll quickly flit over the teenage years as I was vile and rebellious and tried the patience of a saint! Nevertheless I was a real daddy's girl, we all were. He named our sailing boat after us 'Sa'nicajac'  which has a bit of all our names in and many breezy days were spent fishing in Cornwall on it. My love of gardening comes from my Dad, he won prizes for his flowers at the local shows and was always a great source of knowledge that I could turn to. Although we didn't see much of each other when they moved abroad, your Dad is your Dad and it's like a little piece of you dies when they do.

I'm going back later this month for a couple of weeks with my brother and maybe bringing mum back with me to rainy old England. Maybe I'll see a bit more of this pretty area then.They had a lovely life and some lovely friends there, so I know that will be so hard for her to sell up and move back but France seems a very long way away when you need to get there quickly.
 
At the funeral, which was hastily sorted out within 2 days, they buggered up the music a bit and 'La Mer' by Charles Trenet managed to turn into a Boyzone song sang in Italian, I can hear my father tutting!...

so Dad..this is just for you. x

take it away Mr.Trennet…. 

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