The first morning at the farm

In which I go on a quest

Picture the scene: I wake with the dawn, light creeping around the edges of the shutters. Leaving my family sleeping, I sneak downstairs, pulling a jumper on over my pyjamas as I go. The kettle boils and I gaze out of the window at the river. Armed with my mug of tea, I open the front door and breathe in the air. It is not hot yet. I stroll across the long grass to the field behind the house. There is only birdsong and the rustle of leaves. Undetermined creatures creep through the undergrowth. At the end of the field, I climb up through the forest until I come to the view. I stare down at the river, the mountains, and our home tucked into the middle of it all, and I have to pinch myself. I start every morning like this.

Reader, I am yet to wake with the dawn. On our first morning at the farm, I slept until 9am, overwhelmed with the novelty of not being woken by a small person, because he was staying overnight with his grandmother. My boyfriend and I had stayed up late, drinking wine and thinking about unpacking. By the time I woke up, I had missed the dawn chorus and the summer heat was already making its presence known. Never mind: there was still time for my tea and morning walk in pyjamas fantasy. I took an orange mug that we had acquired in the sale. There was no need for a jumper but I did roughly brush my hair, not wanting to frighten the locals.

And out I marched, still a little stunned that this was our new home. There were places on the walk where it was possible to stand and not see any signs of human beings, other than well-worn paths trodden into the dust. By the time I was out, the morning wildlife had somewhat scattered, but the birds were still banging out the tunes. I was busy grinning the dopey grin of a person who is just feeling really quite happy, when I spotted an older gentleman heading in the opposite direction.

‘Bonjour !’ I called jauntily, raising my mug in salute.

‘Bonjour madame,’ he replied, chuckling and shaking his head. ‘Vous faites une quête ?’

Une quête? Was that a quest? That was quite a strange question to ask, but maybe I looked particularly purposeful on my walk that morning. My French vocabulary knowledge had got better, but this still probably happened to me about twice a week. As always, when in doubt, I just smiled and said, ‘Oui !’

The man laughed and continued walking, calling over his shoulder, ‘Bonne journée !’

I wished him a good day in return and carried on through the forest, feeling nicely out of breath, until I reached the view. It was spectacular.

When I got home, I told my boyfriend about the exchange with the man. It turns out that une quête is indeed a quest, but it’s also a charity collection. The mug must have looked primed for coins and I, scruffy in my pyjamas, must have looked as though the charity was me. I was glad he hadn’t given me any money; I would have thought he was funding my quest. Another day, another French mishap.

My fantasy about starting every morning with a walk and a tea in PJs has remained a fantasy. I have only done it once, that first morning at the farm, because, you know, a toddler plus work plus winter kind of got in my way. But maybe one day it will resume and I will actually wake with the dawn and begin each day marveling at the beauty of nature. Until then, walks with our almost 3 year old, where we cover about 1km in 45 minutes, and we gather sticks and leaves and flowers, and one of us ends up carrying him on our shoulders, will do the same job. We’re all together, in the farm, in the green, and that’s pretty wonderful.

The view. Straight horizons have never been my photography forte…