An everyday Paradise. 

We’re surrounded by fields and woods, sky and space. There is a house next door and we can put out a hand and touch their barn, but we hardly ever see them. We hear their cockerel crowing, and see their sheep grazing. But there is nothing to intrude upon our feeling of being little lords of the manor. 

We are here to look after the Border Collies Tache, Ben, and Max, and Charlie the cat. 

When we started coming here, years ago, there were three cats. Charlie is last man standing. He has his own room which he shares with the washing machine. But he hangs out in the vast upstairs, curled up into a ball on a chair under the table. He makes an appearance when he feels he should be fed, mewing piteously, eyes scrunched closed. In the evenings, until bedtime, he sleeps in Ben’s basket. But at night he sleeps with us. We feel his soft little comings and goings, landing with the tiniest of thuds amongst the bed-clothes, he approaches and purrs like a train. Sometimes he walks around my head, trampling my hair, sits momentarily on the bedside table, and then settles himself between us. I like the comfort of him, his expression of and need for love, and I look for him whenever I wake. 

When his bed is taken, Ben rests on ours. Or flops down on the cool tiled floor. Or stretches out on the sheepskin rug. All the dogs ( and Charlie) are Zen masters. Their day starts at 7 a.m. when the church bells ring. They sing along, throw back their heads, and howl cacophonously. This also happens at 7 p.m. and noon. Chances of a lie-in are few and far between, but, after Tache’s medication, before breakfast, I read for an hour on the kitchen chaise longue, usually with Max, the biggest cuddle bunny, beside me. Tache stays close and nudges, pushing her nose or head against my leg, until I pay her heed. Ben goes back to bed. It’s a slow start. A routine that pulses  at the edges, and makes room for what we all need.

While it’s cool and the grass is still damp, I throw the ball a few times. Max and Ben run and tumble. Tache plays her own game; picks up and drops her large football, and wags her tail. She looks interested but does nothing. Jim sits on the terrace, waiting for the sun to rise over the trees, gazing out at the deadened sunflowers, willing a deer to appear.

Eventually I walk to the village for cafe au lait and to pick up a baguette. A very pleasant way to do half my daily steps. Around 10.00 it starts to warm up  and I sit inside then, and  try to learn some Spanish, or draw or write. The dogs meander, sit inside, then out, then in, then out. Max always has his eye on, or his mouth wrapped around, his ball. They pant and loll and smile. They take long slobbering draughts from the water bowl, trailing water all over the kitchen floor. I clean often, but feel like King Canute, and don’t stress over rolls of floating dog-hair, bits of mud and leaves, and the odd large spider. C’est la vie!

We eat our baguette and cheese and tomatoes on the terrace, awning now lowered. We look out over the pool, the veggie plot (there is a glut of courgettes) and potted lemon trees. The dogs turn beggar, ever hopeful, ever optimistic. They are never daunted. 

And so two and a half weeks roll by. Lazy days of critter company. But still strangely productive. Without trying we tick little tasks off our to-do lists. It’s a heady mix of something and nothing. Not all house-sits are so easy, but for once I feel I have got the balance right.