Days at Ouzilly.

Poitou Charentes, France

August 1st, 2026

Dear Reader,

The place here in France is called Ouzilly, and the story goes that my dad saw it and exclaimed, “wow, look at all those roofs!”.

He bought it and brought us to live here in March of 1995. It was cold, damp, and moldy inside the house.

My dad got sick with a bad cold so we moved into a farmhouse nearby where the fireplace smoked dreadfully.

Once the chateau had been renovated and properly cleaned we moved back into it. Later we went back and forth between here and Paris, and now it is a summer place.

Today, it is one of my favorite places in the world and I sometimes think I could easily spend all my days happily occupied here.

The table set outside under the linden tree.

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I was in the middle of a recurring dream in which I am supposed to perform but am totally unprepared. I’m not where I’m supposed to be at the right time and worse, no one notices.

Around 6.30am I was awakened by the crunch of footsteps on the gravel below my window. The smell of a hand rolled, un filtered cigarette came wafting up to my nostrils. Our groundsman, Damien, had arrived for work.

Damien is in his fifties and has kept the lawn mowed and the flowers watered for 25 years. His face is deeply tanned, he’s got a grisly beard and bushy eyebrows which join together just above his nose. He wears a pair of glasses, an old tee shirt, work pants, and boots. This week he wore a tee shirt with hoola hooping girls on it. All day long he goes about his business with a cigarette perched at his lips.

I heard the pull of the hose along the gravel followed by a thump, followed by an oath.

“Oh putain, putain.”.

The crunching footsteps continued on, and the smell of smoke disappeared.

It was a beautiful morning, with wispy pink clouds dancing in the sky.

The temperatures had gone down considerably and I closed the windows of my room. The sound of my dad’s padding footsteps passed my room, and I heard him go down the carpeted stairs.

I did my morning exercises, and went down to make coffee. I put the electric kettle on. On a tray I set out two cups, and a small pitcher for warm milk. I got out the French press and poured the coffee in. The kettle clicked off, and I poured in the water.

Once I’d pressed down the coffee, I poured it into a thermos and carried the tray out to my dad, already busy typing on his computer. He wore a pair of patched jeans, a frayed work shirt, a straw hat with a feather in the brim, and his glasses perched on his nose.

I poured us each a cup of coffee.

Soon my mother came down dressed in her exercise attire. I took up my 2 pound weights and joined her for a walk, sidestepping cow patties in the old road.

At breakfast, a couple of huge drops of rain plopped down on us and my dad put the umbrella up.

This afternoon I leave for Paris where I’ll catch up with a friend for drinks at Le Fumoir, an American bar on the right bank, and then meet my husband for dinner.

My parents will join me on Sunday. My mother and I plan to spend the day at Le Bon Marché, the best department store in Paris. There’s a wonderful Italian restaurant with a view of the park where we’ll have lunch.

On Tuesday I take off for the US with a stopover in Dublin, Ireland.

More to come…

Mariah

P.S. I have been working on my piano, and can now sing and play a couple of songs. Here’s a snippet of Ian Tyson’s Someday Soon.