Fine one I am, as a resolution-keeper. (And I'm back on the cheese and butter too. DoH)
But as most of you know, my Father-in-Law died in May, and preceding months were even more bound up with appointments and hospitals.
Since this is blog not diary, and aims to give a flavour of HOW life is for a British person in France, I shan't go into detail. But what made the whole thing harder was not, as you might expect, language problems, leading to misunderstandings, the fear of errors, but a cultural difference which we have only realised after talking to French people since May.

Doctors in France will tell you only what they think you should? want to? hear. We assumed that as in Britain, that if you ask a question it will be honestly answered. Then one can proceed, have the conversations one needs to have, make the arrangements necessary. I have no idea whether it is a lasting paternalistic attitude, or whether it's a sort of Japanese thing of fearing that causing distress is rude, but we were as good as lied to on several occasions, which of course, caused us far more distress both before and since his death.
Discovering from an Insurance agent and a Bricolage employee (odd who we have conversations with!) that this is the French way has been a relief and release.

Through it all, we have had the most fantastic weather! A beautiful Spring from mid-March, although a worrying drought through June, then, just as all the holidaymakers came in July, blessed downpours! Saved our runner beans but I felt so sorry for campers.

And now, phew, following a storm, the temperature has dropped infinitesimally below 20ºC, our Max/Min thermometer now has a 25º difference from the 47ºC it showed one day (mind you it was in full sun and Paul says that doesn't count,) and the 20ºC it is now. At night it was 35º but for the first time in over a week, sleeping is possible again. No more 2.00 am viewings of The Wire or the Beiderbecke Trilogy, although we are still kept up til midnight, irresistibly transfixed for the second time by Forbrydelsen, even though we know whodunit!
Fortunately it has only been that week that was so unbearably hot and humid, with hornets putting our fig trees out of bounds and the house filling with drosophila. (Which always make us think of Mary F and her strange previous employment; sexing fruit flies. < waves to Mary > ) The little critters are drawn into the dark cool of the shut house by a big dish full of melons and pears from the garden.
The previous wealth of peaches and nectarines and blackberries are filling the freezer, fattened by July rains, but Tuesday's storm will have had the local vignerons quaking; their harvest, the vendage, is so close, earlier than usual because of the months of fine weather. The last thing they and their crop need is rain. Sappy, swollen grapes, split and breeding botrytis overnight, will not make good wine. (Only the local Monbazaillac grape is harvested late, often after the first frosts, shrunken and slightly mouldy.) A neighbour - anyone within a 3km radius is un voisin - Jackie Chater, is crossing her fingers, legs and toes at Domaine Chater, and so are we; we love their wines and admire their efforts which are successfully transforming a Vin du Pays vineyard into a world-class organic medal-winner.

That end-of-summer feel.
Still quiet - school has not started yet so no school bus rumbles past the bottom of the drive at 8.05.
Still August, so many artisans are still at Arcachon or Argeles, their busy buzzy white vans parked in their yards.
The last Soumensac picnic market is on Sunday.
In the garden, an empty swing sways to and fro in the breeze stirring the chestnut tree. Straw beach mats flap from the loungers higgledy-piggledy on the lawn, next to a little tipped-over red chair. The large ring left on the lawn by the paddling pool is greening over, and we are left with the ghosts of visitors' lively presences. Footprints dent rapidly across the lawn, calls ring through the house, giggles wreath through the trees and bring back all the other people who have arrived and departed from here. A red squirrel pounces across the grass, another blue morning flower opens.