Gold stitches.

Memorial Day weekend. The end to a busy two weeks. The family roaring with laughter as ' the font ' relates the saga of travelling through busy airports with an urn . The security supervisor at Heathrow firmly told that ' granny font ' would not be travelling in the hold and would, despite his protestations , be travelling in the cabin.  '' You'll need a doctors letter " he says eyeing the urn suspiciously. ' It's a bit late for that don't you think ! ' comes the reply.

The end of the afternoon . The first clouds building up over the mountains .  One final duty to discharge. We wander down all together to the little stream that meanders alongside the roman road . The elder trees thick with flower, a briar drooping into the water . On the bank a set of fresh deer tracks .  A line from a poem  " Love is what carries you, for it is always there , even in the dark, or most in the dark , but shining out at times like gold stitches in a piece of embroidery ". Just right .   

Madame Bay is waiting for us when we get back to the house. Champagne poured. She's been busy in the kitchen making pate. Masses of pate . She cries again . Never one to hide her emotions . We all sympathize about her allergies . In her eyes - it's quite striking - a little bit of the world's goodness . A joyous end to the day.

Now it's time to move on . Later this morning cars will be packed, the house locked up, and we shall set off for the Cannes Film Festival.