JamRocking in Paris V- Picking cherries

A trip to the Loire Valley, stately castles reclined in verdant and golden faraway lands of old, silhouetted by the Loire and styled by serious and dedicated makers of Chinon, Vouvray, Montlouis and Sancerre. Nestled in this garden backdrop, La Varenne sprawls its family history and secrets over 6 hectares; Venus, Nightshade and Ecu embody over 20 years of horse backing riding through La Fôret de Chez Baillou and oftentimes are the first to greet you grazing behind the fence that separates them from the tiny road that leads to the house. One neighbour in sight and a glimpse of his "welcome to Tonton Gervais’” sign (the one person with whom Guillaume spent many a childhood rowdy days, seated on his tractor, killing a variety of animals, from cows to rabbits and learning country songs such as “Ma petite Lochoise” – which he flattered us by singing at our wedding two years ago) and a flowery driveway that leads to a gravelled yard speckled with trees and flowers. In a semi circle layout, 5 cottages stand at the extremities of the yard and a main house that welcomes hidden wild cats, families of birds that nestle their young ones in an old pump at the entrance of the house and years and years of construction, transformation, and devotion.

La Varenne was once a big farm with many animals and stables, hard as it is to imagine. But Dad has spent many a weekend and many a holiday using his own hands, big manly and constructive hands, to better and modernise while preserving the rustic spirit of La Varenne. Knocking out a wall here and there, adding sun lights, an indoor swimming pool and many a faucet to each guest house, all 5 named after botany: Lilas (lilac), Glycine (wisteria), Althéa (althea), Laurier (laurel), Jasmin (jasmine) by Mum, the "inn-keeper." Mum is a woman who knows how to rally things up. She’s an actor, not a watcher and all her actions can be found in this little piece of the Garden of France. Together, Dad and Mum have constructed this magnifique nest for their children, grand-children and great-grand children.

It’s hard to imagine that Guillaume once played in this yard. Kicking football with his brother and sisters. This is where he broke his wrist falling off one of the horses; where Marie, his big sister rode her shiny new bike proudly and skilfully for the first time; where Abigail and Lucie, his younger sisters, shared their secrets and dreams of gallant princes who’d come take them away. This yard witnessed the art and technique of Guillaume and Martin, his big brother, entwining and testing their legs and fists in swift and agile movements of Karate.

Today, Marie’s three children, Claire (9), Clotide (7) and Antoine (4) play with Guillaume and me in this same yard, throwing Frisbee and beach ball whose rackets sport ‘Jamaica’ on each side. Martin’s 5 year old, Jeanne scurries to hug her cousins and Louis, 3, secretly hides snails in his pockets; Martin’s last one (for the moment), baby Marc, drools big blue eyes all over my shoulder, while his mother, Big Claire tries to pry the snails from her son’s pockets, her face conjured in repulsion and unwavering resolution as Louis screams and resists.

(Jeanne, Clo, little Claire, Louis & Antoine)

(Guillaume holding his god-son, Louis & Antoine)

Hard to imagine too, that this same place, where Mum’s brother, Tonton, reverently mows the lawn and Lucie sunbathes today, long pale legs basking in the sun, soaking in the sunny serenity of the countryside, far from the frustrations of university life in Paris and successfully imagining her dear sister and confidante, Abi though far away in Sudan, in the office of her NGO, actually lying beside her soaking in the pleasure of being at home; hard to imagine that our child will play here one day. This little person will scratch a knee, dream a dream, cry many a tears and laugh many a laughs.

In wild cherry trees, fingers nimbly picking and dropping skilfully into awaiting white bucket thoughtfully posed on the ground, I allow myself to be a child again. Thinking of nothing, other than picking red wild cherries so that Mum can make her famous clafoutis (cherry tart) Claire and Clo beside me, in a dedication that is far beyond their age, concentrate on their task at hand; just like they had a couple minutes earlier, while doing ‘yoga for pregnant women’ with me. Both Claire and Clo had been particularly resolute to accomplish each exercise though some positions brought a rush of blood to their little faces and tingly discomfort to their legs and arms as they stretched their bodies in peculiar positions. They’d concentrated on the soothing music like I told them and allowed their bodies to be set free during 45 minutes without a complaint. Now they stand side by side meditating the cherries, sunshine on their shoulders and glee in their eyes.

I allow myself to be their age once again, giggling as I retrieve my camera and started snapping photos, trying to trap this moment in each cherry, each leaf, each movement, and Claire laughs at me as I try to snap the cherries falling into the bucket.