Uncle Ludovic would not approve.

Every morning in summer Jacques used to sit at a little wrought iron table painted white for a late breakfast in the walled garden beside his house. 

Marie always brought a pot of coffee and some pastries when she heard him open the gate, and Jacques liked not to have to speak until he had read the newspaper that a boy brought from the village well before he was awake. 

The table was positioned out of the sun and any breeze that might trouble the poet; he had become a bit precious in his wealth and old age and had to have things just as he wanted them. 

It was seated at that table, the newspaper open and a pastry half eaten, that Marie found him dead. 

Autumnal Internationality

This late autumn weather has really got me going. Not only am I enjoying it in the present but I'm revelling in autumns past, times enjoyed among fallen leaves and chestnuts roasting on braziers sweetening the air.

Autumn talks to me about Paris, Madrid and Turin, all different yet strangely the same as dusk takes over.

Turin has the snowy Alps as its back drop and the late afternoon sunshine bounces off the snow to guild the city; an afternoon trip up to the Superga and then the night starts properly with drinks at Caffè Roberto.

Paris sits quite sedately in the autumn dusk, anticipating a frosty night. I like to walk up the Champs de Mars as the night draws in and enjoy the wide open space that's such a rare commodity in the compact city, then dinner in the Argentine restaurant in Rue Moufftard.

An autumn afternoon in Madrid has to include a walk among leafless trees in Parque de Buen Retiro and a visit to the Museo del Prado. Dinner somewhere around Sol, and another late night meander in the cold air.