Please allow me to break my months-long blog silence to compose a personal letter to one of my favourite people. For her sake, I have chosen to include that silly ‘u’ that commonwealth folk like herself seem to “fancy.” But only because it is her birthday.
Ceci étant dit, Happy Birthday Rosie!
Of all the tiny towns, in all the Dordogne, in all of France, I am so glad you walked into mine – or rather, that we walked into the same one. Though while we’re clearly alluding to gin-joints, dollface, I do hope that you manage to celebrate with un verre or douze. Wishing so much that I could be in whatever posh London watering hole is right-this-moment refusing to serve you any more St. Emilion (surely you’ve sprung for the fancy stuff; Château Pavie, peut-être?). Regretting not baring witness to your most newly acquired article of cat-themed apparel that you’re undoubtably sporting tonight, but hoping that it will not be long until we are at long last réunie!
You are an amazing friend, whose cheer, humor and insight I can’t help but miss each and every day. May the next year of your life bring you all the gastronomic, exotic, and feline delights that you so very much deserve. And maybe Hugh Jackman will star in a movie where his shirt needs to stay off all of the time. Just for you, ma belle.
At the Livre Gourmand in Périgueux.
In Arcachon, on the way to La Dune du Pyla.
Posing like jaunty cats in Collonges-la-Rouge.
A lovely afternoon in Saint-Jean-de-Côle.
Losing our minds in Brantôme.
Gros bisous, Sarah