In the big 300 year-old fireplace downstairs a fire burns and crackles, warming the house and I am tucked away in my little bedroom at the top of the stairs above the Kitchen at Camont.
The rain has started. I can hear the gentle pattering of drops on the leaves outside my window. I wonder how many other souls have listened to the quiet of the night from under this same red tiled roof.
France’s edges are worn smooth. Wherever I look, there is beauty. In the Gascogne countryside, I see it in the smiles of the people who have welcomed me, fed me and helped me. Her song is sung in their mellifluous voices. As I run my fingers over her old stones, I feel it. The woodsmoke carries it as the sun sets and the night begins. I taste it in the local food, some of the best I have ever been privileged enough to eat.
Gascony is filling me with a grace I believed I had all but used up over the years. But, it is still here, and I am drinking it in slowly, replenishing myself…drop by drop.