It was really strange driving out to France a few weeks ago, when normally we are eagerly anticipating a fun holiday and hoping for sun. But this time nursing a broken wrist, albeit in a gorgeous neon pink plaster cast to match my pink Converse trainers, we were on my way to my parents’ house for my father’s funeral. One good thing was having all of us, brothers and sister, lovely cousins, nephews, neice, uncle, aunt plus my beautiful daughter together for the first time in years. Sadly this usually only happens at funerals and occasionally weddings though. French crematoriums are truly bizarre, a television screen high on the wall showing a slide show of landscapes as in 1001 places to see before you die – only in France. Several people milling around outside smoking as all French seem to do waiting for ashes to be handed over. We were so glad to get back to the house and open a few bottles of wine. Then legal stuff to do, french paperwork, Notaires, all totally exhausting, so when fab husband and I arrived back home just a few days ago we felt shattered. Plus not being able to drive meant fab husband had to do all the driving himself. We did squeeze in a good dinner on the last night whilst waiting for the ferry, so I managed to get my moules and crepe fix, plus a good few Kir Royales before the ferry left. Good old Brittany Ferries -comfortable cabin and a yummy early breakfast the following morning. Then at last, the first day of Spring, so the tortoise woke up, sniffed the air, rubbed his eyes sleepily and declined the tomato. It has been rather cold since, I think he probably regrets his early start but means that spring should be here any moment and at least the garden looks daffodilly pretty at last.