A short drive away and we’re on to our next house-sit. Someone said to me once, ‘Why would you travel all that way to walk someone’s dog?’, but house-sitting is so much more. It’s comfort and companionship, a tiny peek into different lives, a chance to live eyes wide open. It fulfills my need to stay awhile, to live like a local (I know I’m fooling myself somewhat), and simply to stop. 

‘I feel like I’m coming home’, said Jim as we drove from the Dordogne to the Pyrenees-Atlantiques. Sue and Ev were once ‘The Others’, house-sitters for a couple we also sat for regularly. We knew them and yet we didn’t. We’d never met but heard of them often. And then they moved to France and needed sitters themselves. And they asked us. 

That was in 2019. Four short years ago but it feels as if we’ve always known them. They are now woven into the fabric of our lives. We come twice a year, in Spring and in Autumn, and we purposely overlap, so we spend time with them before they leave and again when they get back.

Their little house, on a slight rise with a magnificent view of the Pyrenees, is a quiet haven at one end of the village. There are trees and birds, and Buddhas, Tibetan prayer flags, a big veggie patch, and summer-sky-blue shutters. There are two cats, Caramel and Nelson, and two dogs, Nellou and Bella. Inside, Wallace and Gromit knick-knacks jostle for space with artworks created by their friends, stiff white cards bearing hand-written Japanese characters, calendars, books, and photographs. And more books. And more books. 

Every morning, the first thing I do is look for the mountains. They are at least a 90-minute drive away, but on good days tantalisingly close, a series of peaks, rounded, jagged, and breached. Sometimes cloud covered, sometimes nothing more than shadows and shapes, dark, mesmerising, layer upon layer of purple, black-blue smudges dipping and soaring. Sometimes they are not visible at all, and no-one would know they are there. Except I do, and they occupy mind-space; I catch myself checking often to see how they’re doing. When weather allows, they can be seen from the conservatory where we eat lunch, and not quite so well from the shadow of the grand old oak, whose shade we enjoy on hot days for meals a plein air. 

The veg patch is in front of the house. No mountain view, but other glories. There are aubergines, courgettes, tomatoes, paprikas, the list goes on. I water and work out what to do with a glut of whatever has gone into overdrive. This time it’s tomatoes. Wooden crates stacked in the garage, green tomatoes covered with brown paper, encouraged to transform, from coral, to scarlet, to candy apple, to red. I uncover, check, remove, use. It’s a Rumplestiltskin’s chest, a serious challenge to my creative and culinary know-how. ‘Can you die from a surfeit of tomatoes?’, asked Jim one dinner-time. 

Occasionally I walk through the village,  a long stretched-out affair, culminating in a chateau on a promontory. To walk this road is to run a gamut of barking dogs, who prop themselves against gate ledges, stick their noses through mesh, and run raggedly back and forth on chains. One bares his teeth, incisors protruding and hurls himself at his imposing gate. It’s a baton of barking, passed from neighbour to neighbour. ‘Stranger alert! Be aware’, they say. 

It’s not a peaceful walk, but I love the houses with great gobbits of stone set into plastered walls, the ornamental gates, rustic roof tiles, crucifixes at crossroads, and tractors parked outside rickety barns. The view expands to hills, green and rolling, trees and woods, and horses in fields. 

Amazingly there is even a shop. There is no sign. Just a porch, wisteria-covered in season. There is fresh bread, baked by brothers and sold by their mum, who recognises me and always asks ‘Petite miche?’ with an inflection in her voice when I go in. There are other things to buy. An odd assortment of canned goods, cleaning products, and chocolate. The kind of things it’s felt you might run out of or need in an emergency. At Christmas you can order a bouche Noel. 

Of course there is a Mairie and a church. A little book library in the bus shelter (there is no bus). And a salle de fetes. Once a month there is a Friday-night pot-luck dinner. Our French is poor and we rarely go. We are happy to be here, in this house that oozes bonhomie.