Not Monet's Garden.

I do enjoy being entertained in a pleasant garden, and that’s what happened to me late this afternoon. When the worst of today’s heat had started to tail off we left the shade of the little copse of trees around the stream and took a slow stroll into the village. Our intention was to have a cold drink; a pastis for me, an impossibly chilled white wine for my wife and a coke for our daughter. As we settled at a table outside the café, in the shade of the church that so thoughtfully shielded us from the sun, an elderly gent asked if he could join us, there being only the one table. Of course we agreed, even though we are not gregarious people and find social chit chat exhausting with friends and strangers alike. It was obvious to him that we were foreigners and we chatted about that for a while till I managed to turn the attention on him. He lives in the village and invited us to bring our drinks into his garden beside the café. All I could see was a high wall, but the man led us through a red door in the wall into the most splendid secret garden I’ve ever wandered around. Colour was exploding everywhere, and the sweet, sticky smell of honeysuckle hung in the air. There was a lichen-covered statue of Minerva in among the wisteria, a fish pond and a vegetable plot all contained behind the high stone walls. It was a big garden, and at the end of it a small cottage where the man lived alone, and everything shut off from the world by high walls. In the walls were several doors: the door we entered through from the street, another that opened into the café (which he owned), one into the Church and another onto a wide terrace overlooking a lake. Little paths, big, floppy-eared Dutch rabbits wandering free, cats sleeping on sunny shelves built into the walls and little, leafy follies to shelter in. It was idyllic, but the centre piece was undoubtedly the gentleman who had spent decades putting it all together, and who entertained us with stories of De Gaulle and Malraux, both of whom had been friends of his father. We felt rather special having all this shared with us. Far more interesting for us than Monet’s garden.