Today I return to the farm. The last time I was there I almost broke my back picking apples from trees that fringe the high grass for minutes and minutes beyond the view of the main house and stables. I had spent the whole day making compote yet there were tons of apples left and another tree still laden, the fruit now falling to the ground with a sigh, with a muffled tut.
Today I’ll almost break my back again bumping that wheelbarrow (how many times this time?) back to the house. Then the kitchen will be warm, sweet-smelling and sticky. I imagine that I am two generations older and that grandchildren will soon come charging in to lick out the pots. They’ll get their knuckles rapped! It tastes so much nicer when it’s hot, they’ll say. Later, I will fall into bed, into the arms of a man who too wants his share of sweet stickiness. What else to do but laugh and I give in, the both of us happy for the night; for its rewards for a hard day’s work.
This piece started its life as an email to a friend, but then it wouldn’t let me go so I elaborated it, my mind already linking it to a new novel high on my To Do list. The farm, a place I like to retreat to, where physical work offers a welcomed change. Soothing. The bath at the end of the day all the more delicious. Notes about life there could well become a regular feature on my blog. Let’s see