“This time, you’ll cry when you leave France, not the other way round.”
Loath as I am to admit it, Celyn is actually right. Wiping rivulets of mascara from my cheeks, I reluctantly said goodbye to my ‘family’ and friends in Sarlat before unashamedly wallowing in a rather uncomfortable hole of self-pity as I made the journey northwards for the last time.
I cannot deny that leaving France has been a confusing emotional injection of ups and downs. Bittersweet on so many levels, it is an experience akin to taking medicine that burns your throat on the way down but in the end you know it will make you feel like a million bucks. True, I was desperate to see my family and friends, to be in contact without having to prearrange Skype times, to be able to converse and make jokes without having to worry about verb endings, to be in the same country as Celyn and to be able to share with him even the most mundane tasks. This was a sense of normality that I had been hankering after. Yet, flying in the face of all this, I cannot quite believe that I will be leaving my rural French idyll, that my fairytale lifestyle is now make-believe for real.
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| La Ferme de la Croix d'Allon... home for the past 6 months |
My final week flew by in a chaotic montage of coffees, gifts, beers and goodbyes. Still well in possession of my reputation of the ‘yes-girl’ (well, if you don’t do, you don’t learn..!), I participated on a school trip to Domme with two of my classes; was given the choice of caving, archery, canoeing or rock-climbing on the CM2 Semaine Sportive; indulged in a badminton apéro (or five) both at someone’s house and in the sports hall itself; dined with colleagues in Sarlat to mark the beginning of the summer holidays; celebrated Nadine’s birthday (my mother #2) with a meal at a local restaurant and a very special surprise party ; and in all thoroughly managed to abuse my liver whilst bidding farewell to my new amis - an act that seemed fairly fitting for leaving the foie gras capital of the world.
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| Getting off the 'train' at Domme |
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| "No honestly, we are listening!" |
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| "Domme est une ville fortifiée, fondée en 1281..." |
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| Greatest quiz team ever |
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| Gourmet pack lunch for the profs... |
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| Canoe races for sports week |
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| The newbie at Ferdinand Buisson..! |
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| "No. Honest. We DON'T want to canoe" |
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| End of term dinner with F. Buis colleagues |
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| Hard work on a Saturday afternoon |
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| "Daniel, are you SURE you're not pregnant...?" |
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| Eating ooot for Nadine's birthday |
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| It's THE DANCE. It's proper hard you know.. |
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| Les filles at the fête in Tamnies |
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| Love |
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| Love love |
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| Rapidly assembled table for Nadine's surprise party |
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| Hats off to Lucie - grand master flash for organisation |
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| Joyeux Anniversaire Nadine |
I know I will see them again, there is no doubt about that, but it is with a sinking feeling that I know a flying visit will never be the same as constructing your own life there. I have been informed by many that I am leaving at the ‘best’ time. True – the weather is magnificent, post-lunch siesta’s and afternoon swims are the norm, and restaurants, bars and cafés have popped up everywhere to accommodate the hordes of tourists who have descended on the region. Yet, although winter in Sarlat is really nothing to shout home about (as the past 9 months of grumpiness have demonstrated), it is the term-time memories that will never be forgotten. Rainy Tuesday evenings eating cabécou on pain grillé (yeh, that’s the French version of cheese on toast), squeezing four into the backseat before heading down to the Stade de Madrezes for the rugby, rushing back from school on sunny afternoons to grab a quick swim (and diving lesson – merci, Jason) before evening lessons, all crashing back at 4am for some red wine (or vinegar, if you are into that kind of thing) and a hilarious analysis of the night’s events, having a surrogate family who are there to help when you manage to screw-up, no matter how many times that may be.
Happy as I am to be home, Sarlat – tu vas me manquer...
