On the roof terrace of The House With The Stone Door – Number 11 Rue de Haute – Agde – you can sit and gaze up at the swifts gathering before dusk, darting in circles across a still blue sky. Seagulls, stand sentinel on the tapestry of thickly curved tiles, and call in a language I don’t recognise. It is definitely not the language spoken by the seagulls I grew up with in Somerset, nor those I’ve heard further north.
I guess they are speaking French.
Speaking in French is something I’ve managed little of as yet but it is only day three (Monday )of two whole months, so there is time. The man in the Papeterie where we bought exercise books for writing in, spoke English. When he knew we were going to be around for a while he said we must only speak French in his shop. He will speak English and we will speak French, this way we will both practice. It’s a charming idea but I’m not sure how much paper, post-it-notes, or how many pens and pencils we will actual be needing.
To get to the roof terrace you have to climb, several high and narrow, wooden staircases and four stone steps set into the original medieval city wall. Once there you can see beyond the green of the Herault river to the trees that line the Canal du Midi, (where I will be walking every day, well nearly every day – once I get going that is – soon!), then into the far distance to the pale, shadowy hills of the Haute Languedoc.
The air is very clean. You can tell by the deep yellow lichen on the roof tiles.
The air is made for writers- warm and inviting, drifting in from exotic coasts, over wide seas along ancient roads. I can tell, because I’ve already got eight thousand words of my new novel onto the laptop! (More of that later.)
The house welcomes us with its spacious kitchen, it’s deep stone walls and glazed tiled floors, but I am still finding my bearings. Just now I feel strangely, although comfortably, out of place. It is as if I have stepped out of my life into another life entirely. Rather like the time, more than thirty years ago, when I set off with John and our friends Nick and Sue to travel the world for nine months. Travelling does that to me – shifts my space, slows me down, so I am quieter, more thoughtful, more accepting and more appreciative of the small things: about as near as I ever get to being in that truly zen place.
So there are many good spaces in the House with the Stone Door – on the roof is just one of them- peaceful and meditative – but also just a great place to catch the sun, drink wine and cloudy pastis, read, write and catch the delicious smell of Debora’s cooking wafting up through the house
– all the things we came here to do – oh and speak French with the seagulls, of course…
Reading this post I cannot help but wonder what a fabulous title ‘Where The Seagulls Speak French’ would be! I imagine they are of a somewhat pleasanter nature than the savage seagulls of London Town, especially at St Pauls -where I once had what can only be described as a traumatic encounter involving a Danish pastry and a ravenous seagull.
I do love your description of the house, it sounds like a real writers retreat, speaking of which I have booked a place on your writing weekend Room to Write and simply cannot wait to meet both yourself and Wendy. Patiently awaiting your next installment ….
Kate x