Regrets? Bloody loads.

You know that thing, when it's the last day of your holiday and you get up and walk around the house, or the hotel, or the camp site, or wherever you happen to be, thinking to yourself: this is the last day of my holiday, I am so sad to be going home, I must drink in all the sights and sounds and sensations, I must appreciate the feel of this hot, hot sun on my skin, I must drink in the roar of the cicadas in my ears and the distant chime of the church bell in the village? Yes? Well I have that really bad today.

It's a tricky one, do I want to stay here in the Ardeche, in this comfortable house on the top of a hill with a breath-taking view, or do I want to go back to a building site in Tooting, to shortly send my dear, sweet, loving, adorable Youngest off to a secondary school he is clearly not ready to move on to and where he will be eaten alive for breakfast? 

Answers on a postcard to: Really Don't Want This Holiday To Ever End, In The Sunny Ardeche, Where I Have Been Holed Up With My Family For Two Wonderful Weeks.

The best bit? Well, apart from the kayaking down the local river, the trip down the caves, meeting Llamas, swimming in the cold, clear rivers bordered by stunning gorges, huge rocks, still pools and pretty waterfalls, the constant eating and drinking in lovely cafes and restaurants and here at our comfortable house...

it's the just being together. It's having Eldest say: lets play Chronology again! Or, which movie shall we all watch together tonight? It was that walk Youngest and I took to the village up in the hills on the opposite valley together, when we stopped all the time to look at the different butterflies and the wild flowers and the fossils we found strewn on the path and the cat in the pot. 

It's watching Middle One play his guitar and read his book and be so constantly loving and kind to his little brother. These are the memories I will cherish the most because I am a soppy, middle-aged mother of three rapidly growing boys and I am clinging to every precious minute.

With love, from France,

E x

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