h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

France has been suffering from a cold front particularly in the Massif Central and eastern France. But, thanks to the benevolent influence of the great river nearby, we have enjoyed what we smugly call our microclimate, one of the perks of the Touraine. We are roughly on the dividing line between north and south. Sunny and warm weather, not a cloud in the sky.

So on with the gardening which meant for me the dainty work for nimble fingers that is pulling up nettles from the clumps of perennial geraniums, pulling up all yellow roots. Then clearing up the ground so that the Hottonia palustris can grow, tearing up blades of grass, without gloves. Then the big job which I only started on, on the river bank, trying to destroy all the nettles well on their way to stifling the shrubs. My job is weeding the tricky spots, O/H meanwhile mows the grass, which nobody is their right minds would call a lawn, more a daisy and dandelion field. Less wild mint this year as the river didn't flood.

We also had the great satisfaction of planting box-trees we had grown from cuttings.Our favourite blacksmith is forging frames for the tomatoes. We have been looking at shredders and a marvellous Mantis Compost Twin, which costs a fortune.

This is the prettiest season of all, all those pale greens. And the cherry-trees all in bloom, also the apple-trees are starting to unfold. Peach-trees sport clean leaves and pretty pink flowers but I am not holding my breath, they don't like it here. The lilac is out and the lily-of-the-valley has reared its pretty head. And three cheers for Magnolia Soulangeana!

Wish I could stay here and not get up at dawn to get back to Paris. But I must say I was thinking it could have been a cold drizzling day solet's count our blessings.

I remember reading a book by Zola many many years ago. I was a teenager. I remember that the book was suffused with flowers - their colours and their scent. It kept on building and building, becoming a heady intoxicant. The words on the paper became synaesthesic. The smell gave me a headache, in Fraserburgh, in the winter, four Popes ago.

Your journal entry reminded me of that book. I imagine your garden would be fragrant bower in the long and lazy August afternoons.

I don't know which one it was. I don't suppose you would? I'm starting to plan my Summer holidays reading.

Douglas

I think the one you refer to is la Faute de l'Abbé Mouret which is supposed to recreate a sort of Eden, the sin being of course sex. I read it when I was very young and didn't connect the dots at the time... But the effect you describe is exactly that. One of the few lyrical Zolas.

The beauty of our garden can be totally heart-breaking especailly in spring because the location on the riverside is idyllic but it rests solely on the efforts of O/h and I often long for a head Gardener, with several under-gardeners and peaches from the greenhouse and seeing to the flowers every day... Whereas it's endless nettles and brambles to hack and moles (to deplore, we let them be).

Of course in winter the river becomes the garden when in flood and the charm somehow evaporates...