I painted yesterday until I ran out of paint. Half a wall. I'm always surprised at what difference a coat of white paint makes. I think that our new salon, the only room in the house that remains coolish when the sun is high, is going to be lovely.

Today Gill and I will go to Albi to buy paint, a bed for guest room, and miscellaneous items for Gill's Italian vacation. I will also take my computer and do some upgrades and find out why connection and disconnection is difficult.

This evening we've been invited to Christine and Stan's, an English couple, for dinner. When we dropped in on Angela, another English woman, yesterday afternoon, to arrange a meal for the writing workshop, she noted that the French don't invite people into their home for a meal. I can remember only once, Rob and I were asked into a fancy home in Puycelsi for a feast. The evening was elegant. We began with champagne in the salon and then moved into the diningroom. White asparagus, eaten with the fingers, was served first. The only other thing that I remember about the evening is that I was sitting beside an Englishman (married to a French woman) who lived beside Paul and Linda McCartney in England. He said I reminded him of Linda. He and his wife were thinking of buying a vineyard in the region. A rare evening to say the least.

I have not had much luck with my reading lately. I need to be swept away but "Casualities of Peace" by Edna O'Brien was so depressing, I put it down after several chapters. O'Brien is supposely one of Ireland's best living writers but I find her a bit boring in the same way I find Alice Munroe tedious. Too much ordinary detail? Too mundane? I'm not sure why.
I then tried "The Blood Oranges" by John Hawkes, a book from Sylvia and Rick's library. On the back cover, it notes: "no synopsis or comparison can convey the novel's lyric comedy or, indeed, sinister power - sinister because of the strength of will, Cyril exerts over his wife, his mistress, his wife's reluctant lover; lyric because he is also a 'sex-singer' in the land where music is the food of love." The few pages I read were creepy, made me want to throw up at the arrogance of the main character who fancies himself above all else.

Yesterday Gill and I took the train to Toulouse, the forth largest city in France, and although we don't find it particularly beautiful, it is wonderful for shopping. (Gill had to purchase a few items for her trip to Italy this coming Friday.) The streets are full of memories for me. Rob and I took our three smallish children there over twelve years ago and what gave them more pleasure than anything else was the McDonalds in the heart of the city. Times have changed. I doubt any of them would eat at this American fast-food chain by choice. Gill and I separated and met for lunch at a quiche restaurant near Habitat, visited a travel agent, and separated again. By the time we arrived back at the train station, we were exhausted. The day was overly hot. (I will not complain about the heat after the rain of N.I. but it does fry the brain.)

As soon as we arrived back in our village, Rob called. He tells me that he is living vicariously through me, visiting my blog early morning before he heads out to a smoke-filled studio. He has worked several sixteen hours days and although the money is good, he longs to be with us in the south of France. If he wins a lottery, he will be on the next plane.

Gill and I were too exhausted to even throw a salad together so we went to the simpler (and cheaper) of the two restaurants in town and shared a salad and steak au poivre. It did not take much effort to find our way to sleep.

Today will be lazy. I will clean a little and start the massive job of painting the stucco on the main floor for the workshop. If I do a little each day, it shouldn't be too daunting.

Gill is going to take a walk down to lake, sunbathe (with lots of protection), perhaps have a swim, and then return to help me.

Woke early and sat drinking coffee at the window that looks over a neighbour's garden. Pigeons fly and sing for me. I wonder what to begin writing. I would like to have something prepared for summer workshop. I remember one professor telling me that I have an overabundance of writing material. Several women in the seminar said that they envied my life. I know it is good, more than good, but when my pen fails to perform, I feel like someone who has been given so many advantages and is too lazy to use them. Could this be a discipline problem? At other times, I think that I expect too much of myself. It's takes a lot of energy and time to settle in a new setting and take care of the necessities. It takes more energy to prepare for a writing workshop.
I don't know whether to congratulate myself or lambast myself most of the time.

Today, Gill and I will catch a train to Toulouse to explore, shop for a few items, and check out a travel agent for our trips home (the Toulouse/Paris segment.)

I finished Isabel Allende's "City of the Beasts" described as a "vivid fable" that tells of the adventure of a sixteen year old boy and a thirteen year old girl in the Amazon. I imagine the book was written for teenagers, a kind of Harry Potter extraordinary tale but still I found it a pleasure to read in the late afternoon sun.

Gill is happy about the hot sun. It's so good having her with me. Last night we had David over for a cold dinner of salad, couscous, ham, and a few drops of wine but my day of driving had done me in and I fell asleep at 9:30. Unfortunately, I woke at 2:30 a.m. and had a restless night. So many thoughts of preparing for the workshop are roaming my brain but all is falling into place. (Marlene had a meeting on Tuesday with Vancouver participants and I'm receiving many emails re travel plans and full of excitement.)

Today is market day in Gaillac and Gill and I are going with Bedding to purchase lots of fresh salad, fruit and vegetables. In the afternoon, we may take a trip to Albi.

I'm not feeling too creative these days but I am ahead of schedule and if I can get workshop room painted and near ready, I will relax and perhaps draft a few pieces to work on during the event. I still haven't done Wenda's assignment but, for that, I need to be in a fun state of mind. Hopefully, soon.

I tried to blog this morning but blogger was revising and wouldn't let me. Sometimes I wonder why these computer people have to revise and revise and update and update when I was perfectly happy with
their less recent versions. Ah well, is this a sign of age?
Left early this morning with Susan for Carcassonne. It felt like the old days when we were off on one of our adventures - this time through a scenic valley to Lautrec, then Castres, then through the Black Mountains to Mazamet, and finally Carcassonne. We ate lunch salads at a sidewalk cafe and then Susan took the train to some friends further south while I went to the airport and picked up Gill. She looked so old. (I know it has only been nine days but I always fly with her, always hold the tickets and passports and this time she held her own valuables and found her own way to the right gates on time.)

I'm exhausted after over six hours of driving and shall pour myself a glass of wine and read a little.

Restless night. Up at 1:30 a.m. and sorted books for a hour or so. Up at 6:30 and worked and worked and worked. Finished ceiling in upstairs bedroom. Christine, an English woman, came at 9:30 and cleaned centuries of dust and cobwebs from workshop/living space. Stephane Medina, electrician is coming tonight to see what lighting room needs. Sue, Leon, Carol, Susan, and David are coming at 7:00 for champagne and olives (not dinner.) Pant, pant, life is so hectic but I am happy, feel I have work under control.

Will run now over to Cahuzac for some pate and ham. I feel so organized.

I must be quick today as I need to continue painting. This morning, I tried to install an audio/video form of ichat with Brendan, went to the market in town, and then visited with Danielle, a woman who is renting rooms for the workshop. They are exquisite - large, airy, and very French. The people in the village are very supportive of the workshop: they have reason to be because the painting school is closing its doors and next summer there will be many empty gites. My timing is perfect. I am hoping after the work and fumbling this year, I will be able to host this event more calmly and besides, the painting will be done.

This afternoon, after painting, I will go to Gaillac and try to find a filing cabinet and paper supplies. My printer arrived yesterday from N.I. and I'd like to make sure it's working. I also need to organize all my papers re workshop and my writing.

That's all for now. After a horribly restless night and little sleep, I began Isobel Allende's new book at 3:30 a.m. I'm hoping to simply make it through the day and accomplish these few chores.

As I had a hard time dragging myself away to write, you'd think I was having a good time painting. In a way I am, meditating as I go and feeling a certain satisfaction that I've actually begun and the room immediately looks brighter and more finished. On the other hand, painting a ceiling cramps the neck and I have to pace myself or I'll suffer later.

Last night, I went over to Susan and David's for dinner, taking baby artichokes and a salad so I wasn't too much of a beggar. I ask for an invitation as I enjoy their company and they'll be away a lot of the summer. I love Susan's intelligence, wit, and no-nonsense attitude to words and living; and David, an English professor, Milton specialist, lover of limericks and naughty humour is also a treat.

I left early and finished Trollope's book. Light reading but not without interest. Her theme is family and relationship. She pushes the idea of candor in relationship - if you can't say exactly what you think, what do you have? If you don't do what you want to do for yourself, not living up to another's expectations but your own, what do you have? You lose vitality and originality. Still, she points out that family is the solid ground, you spring from. Travel also has it's value. (After this year, I could write a book on any of these topics.)

Must return to paint. It's still hot but not as crazy as yesterday so I plan to work as long as possible.

This morning also I picked up Basil's 85 Citroen and it drives like a 95 model. I'm so happy that I don't have to depend on others for rides.

Gill will be glad to hear that it is so hot, I can't work in the afternoon so when I awoke at 5:30 this morning, I got out of bed immediately and began cleaning in the cooler early hours. I started in attic room and then moved to guest bedroom to prepare ceiling for painting. I wanted to scrap all paint off the beams but it is impossible: it's now 2 p.m. and I've accomplished too little. I will paint over them when I do the ceiling. I want this room finished by the time Gill arrives.

Last night I finished "Three Junes" and although not without interest, I didn't like the three divisions - the first tells the father's tale, the second, the son's, and the third tells the story of a young woman who casually met both these men. I was not inspired.
I've begun Joanna Trollope's new book "Girl from the South", another easy read but I have too much to do, to read something serious and I have to read or I'm lost.

Yesterday, I did escape for a few hours at Susan's luncheon. The company was good. The food excellent - lots of salads and rabbit but I just couldn't bring myself to try the meat. I kept thinking of the Easter bunny and "Here comes Peter Cottontail" kept running through my brain. (I'd forgotten how the heat can kill any capacity for deep thought.)

I sit in La Place early morning, sipping a cafÈ crËme, thinking about how one friend notes that my blog is different now that I am in France. Am I different? Am I another person? Not in essence, I think but I feel a difference. Is it the sun? (Strange that the male is represented by the sun, the female the moon.)

I am once again thrust into making practical arrangements for the writing workship in August. Since I've been offered a beautiful house, I am moving people around, like pieces on a chess board, trying to match women - many whom I don't know - to their dream, what they requested in their emails. I know this is impossible but still I try.

I bought a mesh curtain for our front door so I can keep it open and let in the sun. That's my biggest accomplishment so far.

An old friend, Sylvia, dropped in last night with over three dozen books for me. (And I was worried about summer reading!) Sylvia's husband died four years ago and slowly she has changed her life, moving from Montreal to Victoria, writing instead of painting, and now finding herself in another passionate relationship. She is a bit embarrassed as she is turning seventy this year. She is also perplexed. Although she enjoys the man's company, she doesn't think she wants him by her side night and day. She has begun to like her own company in the mornings, rising late, dawdling, ruminating. (She has signed up for a post-graduate coarse at the Victoria School of Art and wants to find her way back to paint.) Her words remind me of the difficulty of finding a balance in terms of relationship. I need both solitude and love. This year has unbalanced me.

Today Susan is giving a huge lunch - many many people and I must run and shower (it's hot hot hot again..)

Today is market day in Gaillac and I am happy: the sky is blue and promises another luscious warm day. "Oh ye, in Irlande du Nord, I have no pity, have I not?" I continue to be surprised at how much my mood depends on the weather. I shouldn't be. It has to be the most talked about subject in any land.

Yesterday I had a healthy and spicey lunch - Gill would be jealous - with Sue Light, her spouse Leon and friend Carol. When I mentioned Susan's decree about food and sex, Sue informed me that it was Confucius not Susan who first had this idea. Leon said that of the two, food is most important: "Love making is of little interest, if one is hungry. We spoke of language acquisition and growing old - they are in their seventies - and although with some people, this would bore me to tears, it didn't with these lively intelligent folk. (Don't worry Rob, I know you feel deprived but, if the gods be willing, we will grow young here together.)

I have already sent some emails, written this blog, but must leave for market before I post it.

I feel more and more the urge to write.

Last night, after talking to Rob via cell phone on set, I went for a walk with the lovely Helene, who is still suffering from abandonment, with her daughter's dog, around the edge of the village. The town has decided to ban dogs from its inner sanction because of the unsavoury little piles of dung that are unsetting tourists. Mon dieu, it is beautiful here. I wish I were a poet so I could immortalize this ancient ville's magic. (Perhaps Shirley can do so when she arrives.) Suzi, Karen, Ian, Vaughan and Wenda, listen hard: you have to come here some day. I insist.

I have just returned from market and, as I'm alone, have bought only succulent cherries and melon, a bunch of tiny purple artichokes, olives escabeau and grecque, Perail cheese, and a huge bunch of wild flowers. This is my reward for starting to work. I suppose I should get serious.

Gill would be in heaven. The sun is shining and it promises to be a hot day. Hallelujah.
On my third day, I see the light that mesmerized painters like Van Gogh, Cezanne, Manet and even a Canadian, Jack Shadbolt. Although the rolling hills do not compare with the green of Ireland, there is something seductive about fields of grape vines and sunflowers. How did the French, I wonder, get such a lusty reputation? They know how to savour the olive, grape, and white asparagus? The cheeses - so many - with a loaf of crusty bread make a picnic? If Susan, my friend, an anthropologist is correct when she says that the two best things in the world are food and sex, I will, at least, enjoy one to the fullest.

But bright sky or not, I am anxious to get this house in order and start painting.

I still haven't been able to locate Basil's car so Bedding is taking me to the grocery store.
Last night, I had salad with tuna, a little cheese and bread, a little wine but today, I'm starving and need something substantial.

I feel strange living alone.

"I wander lonely as a cloud/ That floats on high o'er vales and hills..." Wordsworth comes to mind as I wander from room to room, doing a bit here, a bit there. The kitchen and living room are spotless, floors gleam. The bath and sink are clean. Slowly all will come together. I stop often. Read a chapter. Play with a jigsaw that someone started in the attic. I check my emails. Eat a yogurt.

The town is quiet. The summer crowds have not descended yet on this beautiful village. The sun has not returned but it's comfortable. Good working weather. Hopefully I will pick up my paintbrush soon but I will allow myself a few days to settle in and find Basil's car. As usual, I struggle with the language. It always takes a few days to remember words and understand voices.

Last night, Susan and David shared their dinner with me again. I have yet to get a load of groceries and organize new eating habits. I find that food is the hardest thing to get used to when traveling. I have not, for instance, had a potato in two days.

I bought three books at London Stansted, knowing that English books are difficult to find and expensive here. Chose "Three Junes" by Julia Glass because Michael Cunningham recommended it. Also, it's Glass' first novel and won the National Book Award. (Must be nice.) The story is about a man, a journalist, who recently lost his wife and is on a Greek vacation. The two chapters I've read, begin in present time and then move back and forth from past to present, past to present. I am not enthralled but there is enough of interest to keep me reading.

I am pleased with my book collection here. I am starting to amass a decent library - my security blanket. And Sylvia, a friend who lives in the next village called and says she has more for me. I must behave as I have much to do.

Here I am again drinking cafÈ crËme at Le Bar in Castelnau de Montmiral and again I struggle with a language that is music to my ears. A clichÈ, I know, but I can't think of another way at the moment. I am groggy from a day of travel. Although the plane took 55 minutes to London and another 1 hour, 40 minutes to Carcassonne, the train a hour to Toulouse and another 40 minutes to Gaillac where Bedding picked me up, there was a lot of waiting time between each place. I arrived around 6:30 in the evening and then ate with Susan and David, a feast of salads, caviar, and wine, lots of wine, a necessity to celebrate my arrival. I slept well.

I am sitting at an outside table across from a vegetable stand as it is market day in town and I will buy a bunch of fresh garlic, some lettuce and tomatoes, some cheese and bread. C'est assez. It is enough. I miss my traveling companion, my girl, my chef, my poet. She will join me in eight days after her exams. (Tatu just came to my table, kissing on both cheeks, and inquiring about Gill.)

Meanwhile I must clean as the house is filthy, arrange for electricity in the entrance room to become salon, writing workshop. I may even try my hand at writing as Wenda has given me a juicy topic. When I was telling Susan and David about my time in Northern Ireland, I realized that I had accomplished more than I thought. My daughter and I became a team. I won a writing contest, near perfected several other pieces of writing, wrote this public journal, attended a writing forum at Queens and many literary events, came to know many first and second cousins, aunts and uncles, and did a fair amount of genealogical study. On a lighter level, I learned a few line and ballroom dances. I also experienced the exquisite beauty (when the sun shone) of my birth land.

When I arrived in France, the temperature was 35 degrees, hot, hot, hot. In the evening, a storm electrified and drenched the village. All are happy because the heat wave had continued for two weeks. I hope, by the time Gill arrives, the sun is shining. This will please her immensely.

I am sitting in my cousin Ken's office looking out over green fields.

Partied last night with all my aunts and uncles and cousins. Good craic. I am so glad I got to know them for many reasons that I may or may not discuss at a later date.

Have been packing and repacking and tossing aside all morning. I leave tomorrow at 5 in the morning for France.

I doubt that I will be blogging till Tuesday.

Wish me planes and trains that leave and arrive on schedule and a safe journey.

I just scrubbed the last floor I'll ever scrub at 32a Bachelors Walk and am at Cafedotcom drinking a farewell capuccino from Karin and Ian. I have butteflies dancing in my stomach and a head full of to-dos. "Leaving on a jet plane/ Don't know when I'll be back again" is running through my brain. The time in Northern Ireland has been rich especially for making new friends and getting acquainted with family.
We slept over at Ken and Dolores last night (out and utter luxury - Dolores even streaked my hair) and before bed - around 10 - Gill and I went for a walk in the country to Cherryfield, my grandparent's homestead. On the way back, David and Margaret drove by and took us to their place for wine. This year has shown me how isolated my nuclear family was in Canada. And yet I also see the freedom it must have provided for my mum and dad. But when Margaret gave me a big hug last night, I regretted not having memories of growing up with my cousins. Ah well... there's always a give and take.
Tonight, all the aunts and uncles will gather for a farewell feast. I've decided to remain sober (until after 10 at least) and talk to my mum's sisters and brothers. After they leave, I have an inkling that all the cousins will loosen up and enjoy a bit of craic.
Gotta run for last minute odds and ends.

Rob and I were married thirty-three years ago.
I remember the day clearly. I slept over at his sister's place and we woke early (after spending half the night dying her hair and setting mine in rollers) and went to St. Lawrence Market for fresh flowers that Rob's Dad arranged later. I didn't hold to the ban about the bride and groom not seeing each other until the church and slipped into our apartment for a quick hug. (We decided we would sleep apart for a week before THE DAY so THE NIGHT would be hotter.) I left to go up to my parents to hem my going-away pants. By the time, I was ready to bathe, there was no hot water and I had to sit in a cold tub. After, I took my rollers out and had lots of luscious tight curls that made me look like a little doll in my Victorian bonnet. A neighbour drove me to the church and, on the way, said that it still wasn't too late to change my mind. He would take me anywhere I wanted to go.
But I was in love with a fellow who borrowed a suit and wore a tangerine-coloured shirt to his wedding...
After thirty-three years, I am surprised I was so wise so young.

On to practical matters. Moving day. What to do with all the "stuff" we have accumulated over the last nine months? I have just packaged our printer for France and am pissed off that there is no surface mail to the continent while there is to Canada. This means that what I thought I was purchasing for our French house will have to be left behind. Inexpensive items, like a double duvet, but still it's such a waste.

I feel a tinge of excitement. My nomad heart is humming. I will be dancing on the esplanade soon.

And still there are regrets about all the things I could have done here and didn't. But, as my mother would say, "I did the best I could with what I had."

Blogging. Does this derive from logging? Does it have anything to do with blot, blab, blurb or blurt?

I am becoming incoherent.

Shirley read my story at the Award Night and Vaughan and Wenda accompanied her (silently.) Does this sentence make sense? I just realized that the first letter of our first names all appear at the end of the alphabet. S, V, W, Y. This must be significant.

What did I do yesterday? Cleaned and messed. Went visiting. Met, for the first time, my cousin, Alan and his four offsprings - Alisa, Colum, Conor, and Thomas. Nice children. And then Alan's sister, Avril dropped by and drove me to Karen and Ian's where I drank red wine, ate pasta, salad, and crËme brulee; and as if that wasn't enough, Gill and I were presented with gifts - a silver pendant for me and a silver ring for Gill, designed by a famous Scot. I am overwhelmed by their generosity.

I finished "Life of Pi" by Yann Martel whose main character, Piscine claims that any reader will believe in God by the end of his tale. Pi is a Hindu, Christian and Muslim, all at the same time, sees no discrepancy, and takes his reader on a grisly ride across the Atlantic with a Bengal tiger. I would not rank this as one of my favourite books but I enjoyed the eccentric plot and good writing. At the end of the tall tale however I remain an agnostic.

This evening, I am going to Belfast for a last supper with my cousin Jill and her Church of Ireland man, Brian.

I started cleaning out cupboards and everything is lying on the kitchen counter. I started sorting paper and everything is lying on the livingroom floor. I am fast approaching my incapacitated state.

I'll talk about yesterday. For the first time, I spent some time with my Uncle Tom, the so-called "black sheep" of the Kennedy clan. He says he looked after Steph and I when Mom went into the hospital to have Donna. He will be seventy in a few weeks and yet I see the dashing youth in my mother's photo album - a tall, slight, handsome man with the most amazing pale blue eyes. (Uncle Joseph has them too. I imagine they come from my Grandfather.) He is beautifully dressed in grey pants, maroon shirt, tie, and blazer. I am sloppy in pullover and cords. I apologize. He doesn't mind. We drive to Bangor and on the way he talks of buildings, pointing out Stormont, hotels he's eaten and slept in. We stop at the seaside town and wander, drive on and stop for lunch, drive on and cross the water at Portaferry on a small ferry boat. We sit in a pub drinking coffee. Tom says that he has never drunk alcohol, never had the desire. He tells me dirty jokes and I tell him a few. I was nervous about going out with him but I am soon comfortable.
We drove on to the Mourne Mountains, through the hills of Dromara and the panorama view was breath taking. To add to the mood, Tom played tapes of old Irish songs and sang along. I forget in all the grey and rain how beautiful this land is. Tom is in love with his island, north and south. He considers himself Irish, not British and I like this. (I don't know why anyone born in the North, with his or her lilting voice and unique culture would want to be part of another land.)

In the evening I met Margaret and David at The Four Trees for a quiz night in the pub. Margaret, the daughter of my Uncle Joseph, shares with me a dislike of mouth guards and more. She is quite lovely with beautiful skin and easy manner and compliments David with his wry smile and few words. (He is the only family member to share my love of books.)
Ken and Dolores join us and I, at least, enjoy the beastly questions and conferring over the answers. We didn't win but we didn't come last (nearly but not quite) and it was fun.

Today, I will clean up, sort through, toss out, and find my way to Megaberry and Hillsborough for more goodbyes.

Last night, I said goodbye to my line dancing class, promising to continue when I return home, promising pictures of me in cowgirl gear. While I danced, Gill wrote poetry:

"It's market day in Lisburn/ And I want to change the world/ Scream poetry from rooftops/ Bring life to tired streets." At the end of the poem, she writes: "It's market day in Lisburn/ And I'm only sixteen." (Hard to express the power of her poetry in just a few lines.) Another clip: "I return to my mother/ Who still hasn't eaten her scone/ From the bakery that's shut down./ She's praising a poet/ Reminding me to dream big... "


Today is my last market in Lisburn, my last coffee in Green's with Uncle Joseph.

I spoke to Bedding in France yesterday. She said it was 32 degrees in our village. "Oh dear sweet sun, please stay for me. Gill, too." We both need the warmth.

Tonight is the Award Night in Vancouver. My three writing friends will celebrate for me. I wish I could be there. Next time.

Strange, now that Lisburn has become a home, I feel my heart being dragged in three directions, not two.