Summer at the French Bakery

Prologue

‘I t’s a ridiculous idea,’ I say, with a high-pitched laugh I don’t recognise: part hysteria, part wistful. It would be like agreeing to take on a marathon as the unfit, recovering forty-eight-year-old that I am. I know it would be impossible.

Pete nods, firmly and decisively, beside me. ‘Of course it’s a ridiculous idea,’ he agrees.

We stand side by side and stare at the old stone building as the March rain pitter-patters around us.

It is beautiful, despite being neglected.

Full of character and charm, but also eerily empty and alone.

A building that would have been full of life I imagine, now stagnating and still.

The old ‘ à vendre ’ sign is tied to the gates, both of which are listing and peeling with age and abandonment.

‘It would take so much work,’ I say, my eyes drinking in the building and all its possibilities, filling me with something that feels like a purpose, which I haven’t felt in a long time.

‘Imagine it as a beautiful bed-and-breakfast beside that lake. With tea rooms. A salon de thé . Cakes on pretty stands, bunting, and visitors coming to sit and enjoy the view. I’ve seen something like it on Instagram.

I could spend my days baking cakes for people rather than cleaning at the care home.

’ I smile. Much as I loved the care home and the residents I worked with – and I hated stopping work when I became ill – this would be my dream.

Somewhere people would come to enjoy the cakes I love to bake.

‘It would take effort, but could be amazing.’

‘Effort … and money,’ says Pete, and I feel the tiny taste of purpose seep away, like scented bathwater down the plug hole, leaving a grubby residue. ‘Money that we don’t have to waste,’ he says flatly.

I think about the savings account that I’ve added to every month for every year I’ve worked and took advice on how to invest it wisely, that has slowly grown and swollen over the years. Just sat there. I could do something purposeful with it.

We fall silent again, lost in our thoughts and different worlds.

In my mind’s eye, I can see exactly what this old watermill would be like once it’s been renovated. I sigh. Someone will have the same vision and the motivation to take it on. ‘Be amazing when it’s done up, though,’ I say.

‘Gorgeous,’ he agrees.

‘Make a fabulous place for walkers,’ I add. ‘People exploring the area like us.’

‘Or the sort of place that would be good for people on golfing holidays. An afternoon away from the course. Providing they have a course in the area,’ he adds. Pete’s thoughts are never far from golf these days.

The anorak he is wearing rustles as he walks beside me: a known brand, bought for this trip.

He leans on his new walking poles: top of the range, built to last. Much like his golfing gear, which has expanded over the years and now takes up an entire bedroom, replacing the guest-room touches I’d put in – the comfy chair in the window is now a resting place for a golf bag full of clubs, the dressing-table littered with golf balls and tees.

That room was supposed to be for family to visit once the children had left home.

I did everything I could to make their stay comfortable, but they rarely came.

And now, even if they wanted to, they couldn’t, because the room is full of golf accoutrements.

Furry puppet heads over drivers and putters, a variety of bags, hand towels, ball bags and his fiftieth-birthday present to himself: the electric golf cart, with remote control.

We stand and listen to the peace around us. There’s hardly a sound, just the patter of raindrops in the trees, with the smell of the damp spring ground, waking from its winter slumber.

‘Yes. Those pig sheds could be self-catering g?tes .’ I point to the single-storey stone building to the right of the driveway – if you can call it a driveway. It’s really a grassy strip, worn down. ‘You could do events, weddings …’ Purpose is gathering in my voice again.

‘Or retreats for writers and painters, like they do on that TV programme with the chateaux,’ he joins in, smiling. I can see exactly what he means and I’m grateful he’s joining me on my imaginary journey.

‘Yes!’

We fall into silence again, and it’s as if I’m watching the place come to life before me. A place where people come in the summer sunshine, then head to the lake beyond the building. There’d be bunting hanging from the trees and bushes, leading the way, and fairy lights at night. I sigh again.

Pete’s the first to speak. ‘We could never do it, though,’ he says quietly. I leave just a beat or two to savour the ideas and images in my head before they dissolve into dust, like similar discarded dreams.

‘I agree.’ I shake my head.

Just then I see a flash of blue, followed by another.

I walk a little further up the drive, placing my hand on the cold stone of the old building, and look out over the long grass of the lawn.

Then I see them: two beautiful kingfishers darting over the lake in front of the old mill, a flash of colour as they dip across the water from the banks of the lake on one side and back to the other.

I take another step or two forwards, then a few more, up the slippery bank, touching the cold wall of the forgotten building as I stare at the two birds.

Occasionally they plunge through lily pads into the water, surfacing with small fish in their beaks.

Pete joins me, laying a hand on my shoulder, saying nothing.

‘No, we could never do it,’ I repeat quietly.

‘Come on, or we’ll miss lunch at the brasserie. I want the lamb again.’

I turn to him. ‘You had the lamb yesterday. Don’t you want to try something different?’

‘No. I liked it. Why mess with a winning formula? You know I’m a creature of habit.’

We couldn’t do it . The words circle in my mind as we turn back and continue our walk, following the map that had led us here, and is now helping us navigate back into the tiny French town to our little holiday rental.

It’s a peaceful walk, only interrupted by a small turquoise car, moving fast, almost brushing against us – we had to jump into the hedgerow.

I recognised him as Monsieur Martin, the owner of the small hotel where we’re staying. He’s gone as soon as he appeared.

Overhead I see the cranes flying, heralding summer, like a sign of good things to come, better days.

A holiday here was as brave as it gets for Pete.

In the past, we’ve gone camping locally with the kids in the summer and, since they left home, spent long weekends at Warners or taken the occasional trip to the West Wales coast, staying in a B&B and going to our usual restaurants and bars.

But this year I wanted to do something different.

I’d always wanted to visit rural France, to see what it would be like to live here and learn the language.

Pete agreed to a week. An early anniversary present and to celebrate finally ringing the hospital bell.

I’ve loved it, ringing that bell and being here.

We could never do it . The words keep repeating in my head.

I wish I wasn’t walking away from the mill.

I could have stayed and watched those kingfishers all day long.

But what if I decided to make my idea a reality?

What if I took this second shot at life and became the sort of person who followed their dreams? We could never do it, but could I?