In Bergerac

When most people think of a ‘holiday’, I doubt it would involve two days of hard labour trying to whip a garden into shape. If you live in a garden-less flat for most of the time, however, the chance to pose as Mellors and get down to a bit of hard graft is too tempting to resist. I suppose some might call it ‘gardening leave’, but since I am technically retired that would be a misnomer.

If I’d been on holiday with the ex-Mrs Blunt, I rather think I’d have been tempted to spend my entire first week in the garden at Bergerac - mowing the lawn, pruning the trees and generally knocking about in the out-houses. In fact, anything to avoid having to talk to the ex-Mrs B.


As it was, I was travelling with a delightful acquaintance of mine who made sure that my hours of toil were balanced by trips out and plenty of rest and relaxation, so the work element of the trip seemed really quite negligible.



It’s a huge garden, with a mix of peach, apple, pear and walnut trees The peach trees were in full fruit, with the apples and pears ‘almost’ there, so an enjoyable early morning task each day was to pop out to pick a few pieces of fruit for breakfast.



A former vegetable patch on the property was rather overgrown, so I made it a particular task to raise it to the ground with some rigorous scything, raking and burning. From my experience, that kind of work is made all the easier if accompanied by copious amounts of pastis and water, although I’m not entirely sure whether more experienced gardeners would concur on this matter.



The neighbour’s donkeys seemed to take an interest in my labours, and I repaid their solicitations by now and again treating them to a sugar cube or two. After getting the odd nip from their teeth, I decided I’d better wear a gardening glove to aid the feeding process – until one of them tugged it off and started chewing at it on the ground. It was the one in the middle – and I’ve got his number, I can assure you...




It was all worth it in the end, though.