Just now I saw the cat’s face in a pile of clothing on the floor. Not the actual cat, she’s in England but this often happens when we’re on our way home, or rather back to that other home, or returning from anywhere having been away a long time. She thinks of us, she transports herself in that clever cat way, her face appears and I think ah, yes, Kenny. Now I know what you're thinking: idiot, but here’s the thing. However reasonable it might be to assume that the actual explanation lies within my head I’ve spent a lifetime being told I’m a fool so it no longer matters. Kenny knows we’re coming home and that’s that. Through space and time, for which she gives little shrift, she’s projected herself to let me know that inside that furry little head she’s on to us. We’re leaving. Not today but soon. And so begins the prowl about this house, gathering things spread out through summer. There’s a bowl of sunglasses on the dining room table I must sort through and decide which ones can be left out for guests. I’ve already done the hats, they’re balanced on a bust of my father in the hall, my own put away in a cupboard which will lock with all the other bits of mine that I want kept safe. Summer dresses, bikini’s, the Polaroid camera, my straw bag and a spare pair of flip flops. My niece is coming, and after her my sister-in-law. Ronnie Barker used to rent this house, his summer holidays spent exactly like ours. Have I mentioned that? And there were others, too, other families for whom this is just as much a home on repeat, a summer retreat, who’ve loved it as much as we do. I often think of them, like the fourth dimension Spaniards except completely unaware of us who will leave and leave little trace. Like Ronnie Barker who would wake up in my bed, pull back the curtains on that glorious view, curse at the handle that always falls off, learn to do it gently. They come and inhabit and imagine it’s theirs which it is for those weeks, a gentle padding about these stone floors, a terrace chair sat in every year, a favourite spot around the pool. This house with its mighty heart. Les Aumarets loves you.
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Les Aumarets is a magical place. So many happy memories wandering her rooms, listening to the birds in the wee dark hours, laughing in the kitchen, long hours lingering at the dinner table, first as a ten year old girl, then a surly teenager, young woman then a mother with my three children. Our time there was the glue that bonded me to my sisters. Merci beaucoup to you and your family.
Can't wait!! Thanks for all you do to keep this bit of heaven alive and real for us all to tap back into. Can't tell you how special that is. Love you!