August tells no tales…
To some people it might seem like the Gare Montparnasse- comings and goings, trains, planes and rental cars.
To me it just feels like August.
It doesn’t last forever this August madness. So I embrace the energy, keep inviting the friends, and cook, bake and conserve like a lunatic. I can sleep when I’m seventy.
Too soon it will be September, the night markets will end, the workshops will stall, the garden will quit being so greedy. Bacon and I will look around and say “Where did they all go?”. Then I’ll rest.
Soon the last song birds will pause their treetop soundtrack as Mayflies and my ephemeral thoughts hatch and fly on a moonlit night. And then, only then, will I take to hammock and book to succumb to the afternoon rhythm of gentle rocking and a leaf rustling song.
Until then we have bread to bake, fruit to jam, sausage to cure… and stories to tell around the night market tables with friends like Tim, Felix, Dominique, Christiane, Tabitha, Monica, Mardi, Donna, Michael, Emmanuel, Noah, David, Lucy, Loic, Ian, Georgia, Franny and… you.