Playdate

Newt watching

What the actual fuck??

Three ten-year-old girls joined our two for the afternoon. In English, it’s known as a playdate; in French it’s called nos-copines-viennent-jouer-cet-aprem.

We took all five for a walk along the almost-dry riverbed and found newts and tiny frogs and caddisfly cases and a blackbird egg and polished round stones to paint. One was afraid of spiders, another of driving along rough tracks (?), but otherwise all was well in our little slice of world.

Speaking of which: one of the mums gave us a tarte au lait (milk tart...don’t knock it) as a gift. At teatime, I wandered up to the terrace to have a slice...to find that the little gannets had hoovered up every last crumb.

They then played horses, which involved much neighing and shouting of yip. One of ours isn’t so keen on real-life riding ever since her saddle slipped while out on a walk. By the time we noticed, she was hanging upside down under the pony’s belly, lightly traumatised.