The summer holidays can be something of a test of endurance for people who live alone in France; not only do most clubs close, but it’s often too hot to go out anyway. I know quite a few people who feel very isolated at this time of year. There are lots of village fêtes, but these are often just an excuse for binge drinking, so not interesting to go to alone.

Once Gemma, Chris and Elliott had left, I only had two weeks to survive before the patchwork, painting and book clubs would open again, but I was delighted when Beatrice called to ask if I fancied going to a village fête with her. She explained that it wasn’t an ordinary fête, there’d be lots of different, artistic acts to see, all performed by pairs of people, hence the name “Les paires des Landes”.

There were all sorts of acts, from “opera” with programmable ducks, to hilarious ghost stories, supposedly for children, but here, at least, I could understand every word. A couple of women danced with and around a cello and a violin and later, in the same space, two young men did an amazing gymnastics/acrobatics performance into which they managed to inject plenty of humour. What I think was a parody on a Moliere play proved more difficult for me to understand, but Beatrice wasn’t interested in it, and I was relieved when we didn’t stay long at that one. Later she went to watch some French cabaret, while I preferred to stay and listen to a jazz duo.

It was a good day out, worth the effort of getting there. The following week the cycle club held its annual ” journée vélo marche”, when they cycle to a location, then change from cycling to walking shoes, go for a walk and have a picnic, then cycle home. I met them at Gourbera, from where we did a lovely 10km walk through the forest, finishing at a picnic spot. There weren’t many participants, but everyone there made me feel very welcome, it was almost as though I’d never been away.

The next weekend, the band was booked to play at Trois Villes, Adrian’s village, but he was getting bad vibes about it and was worried that we might be as welcome as we were at Argelos, something none of us ever wants to repeat. Ade spoke to various people in the village and we took the decision to cancel. He went to the event and said he was sure we’d made the right decision, as many of the older villagers wouldn’t even tolerate French music being played over a sound system.

Last weekend, being the first weekend in September, was filled with “forums d’associations”; each town and village hosts one of these events, when each association, or club, is allotted a table, sometimes in a sports hall, sometimes in an outdoor public area, to inform the public of their existence and to try to boost membership. Most stands are filled with flyers and other stuff to demonstrate what the club is about. I helped man the stand of the painting club in St. Paul; our stall was rubbish to look at, as the president had forgotten to bring the banner, any cards or flyers, and had only brought one, very dark painting. I don’t know if we signed anyone up, but I found a Pilates class, thanks to the stall next door, that I’ll give a try.

In the afternoon I helped at the patchwork club stand in Seignosse; lots of quilts covered the table and a “grille” (can’t think of the name in English) behind it. A big improvement on the morning’s effort!

So now, “la rentrée”, (the reopening of the schools) is over, people are back at work and school, temperatures have dropped and it’s comfortable to go out in the daytime and sleep at night.  Life has returned to its normal rhythm.

A few days after I got home, Gemma, Chris and Elliott arrived; they’d booked a chalet on a camp site just a 5 minute walk from the beach at Capbreton. Kieran picked them up from the airport, then we all headed to the campsite.

To say the accommodation was disappointing would be something of an understatement; supposedly for 4 people, it was ridiculously small and had no cot or any means of making up Elliott’s bottles. The bathroom was about the same size as the one in our campervan and the fridge minute.

Gemma is very like my mother – pretty scary when upset, and as she headed to the reception, Chris remarked to me that he wouldn’t like to be on the receiving end of the tongue lashing she was about to deliver. Sure enough, when she got back, it was with the promise of an upgrade; they’d be moved to a chalet for 6, with aircon, but it was only available till Friday morning. They’d come to mine for the last couple of days; I was delighted.

Once settled, things improved. We were in the middle of a heatwave, with temperatures of up to 40°C, so they spent a lot of time on the beach or in the pool, hired bikes to explore the area and Chris was able to hire a surfboard. Kieran and his kids spent most days and a couple of nights there, making the most of the extra bedroom and I went over most days too, feeling quite intrepid as I joined the mass of other drivers, crawling our way through the overcrowded streets, avoiding the thousands of pedestrians and cyclists who, having priority, simply step or ride out across the roads without even a glance to see if the way is clear, many of the cyclists not even wearing helmets! Happily I got through the week without mowing anyone down, which felt like a win. 

Their visit coincided with the Dax fête; at 40° it was just too hot for me, so I stayed home, though a rummage through my fabric boxes supplied enough red fabric for a neckerchief for each of them to wear with whatever white clothing they had; virtually everyone wears red and white for the fête. I  played taxi driver and when they’d had enough, all six of them piled into my little car for the ride home, Kieran and Gemma in the boot; they’d had a great day.

Another hot afternoon we went to the air conditioned bowling alley, just down the road from me. After knocking down 9 pins with my first ball, I thought it was easy, but then struggled to hit anything at all and was soundly beaten, even by Arthur and Emily, while Chris and Kieran battled for the winner’s spot. A game of pool, rides on the motorbike game for the kids and everyone was happy.

It was lovely to spend time with Gemma and Chris, but for me the best part was getting to know Elliott, who was adorable and who made so much progress in those few short weeks, starting to crawl while in England and pulling himself upright before he left. He loves books and music; whenever he was grumpy in the car, all we had to do was sing to him to restore his smile. He adored Arthur and Emily, his little face lighting up with a smile as soon as he saw them.

And then they were gone. For a few days my apartment had been bursting with noise, toys and laughter, with quilts and cushions all over the floor to prevent Elliott bumping his head on hard surfaces. Now it was time to clean up and survive the few days of post holiday blues till life got back to normal.

While I was in England I had a message from the woman who looks after the women’s club website; she’d had a message to ask me to contact a Patrick Mahue, the great grandson of Isabelle Mahue, who owned our house in the Gers earlier in the 20th century.

I got in touch with Patrick, a Canadian/French/Englishman and arranged that he’d call me when I was home.

What a fascinating call it was! I was intrigued to know how he’d found me; he’d been searching the internet for his great grandmother and had been led to my blog post about a writing competition that I won, with an article about our garden, including how we found a broken metal fireback, inscribed with “Isabelle Mahue, 1935”. Quite how he then found that I’m part of the Landes and Pays Basques International Women’s Club, I’m not sure.

We talked for nearly two hours; my memory is poor at the best of times, and there was so much information about Isabelle, her story and that of the house and family, that I can’t remember it all, but some of it stayed. Neighbours had told us that the fireback was probably bought to celebrate Isabelle buying the house, but no – the house had been in the family for generations. Other things that we were told, such as Isabelle being “as wide as she was tall” also turned out to be fiction. She’d been widowed during the war and had never got over her husband’s death, suffering from what I’m sure would now be diagnosed as depression.

It was amazing to hear Patrick’s story, all the way from Canada and he’s promised to send me more information on paper (well, email) as and when he continues his research into his ancestry.

So thank you Patrick, I look forward enormously to the next installment.

I’d promised Alex I’d help with a bit of child care over the summer holidays, so when I noticed that “the Simon and Garfunkel story” was on at Harrogate theatre on July 28th, that decided my dates.

I went with an old friend, Liz,  and as it happened, we were sitting next to the sister in law of the guy playing Paul Simon, over on holiday from America. It was a great show, part tribute show, part life story, with images, projected onto a screen behind the performers, of contemporary world events and other relevant stuff. The musicians; the two main men and their backing group of electric guitar, bass and drums were all consummate musicians and performers. The guy playing Art Garfunkel, wearing what I suspect was a wig, had the most beautiful voice and could hold notes, seemingly effortlessly, for ages.

When Alex wasn’t working one day, we went to a local farm, where you can see and pet various animals and their babies. Obviously it wasn’t the right time of year for babies, they were mostly adolescent, including the goat who took a real fancy to Alex’s jeans and seemed determined to have a mouthful of them, but a fun visit anyway. Apart from the standard farm animals, there were rabbits and guinea pigs, ducks and Shetland ponies…….. and a maise maze. Not having a sense of direction of my own, I stuck with Alex for this, she’s pretty good, but the girls arrived at the fort in the centre ages before we did.

Later in the week Gemma, Chris and Elliott arrived, having spent some time with Chris’s family. At last I got to meet my newest grandson, who’s just adorable, lively and smiley and is obviously going to be as tall as his dad.  I was also lucky enough to meet Chris’s parents for the first time, as they’d driven all the way up from near Bristol for a couple of days. I think they enjoyed their stay, never having visited Harrogate before, but it’s a long drive for two days.

On Saturday Alex, Immy and I went to a sound and light show at the Leeds City museum; it was set to Vivaldi’s “the Four Seasons” in the central, circular, domed room. There were bean bags on the floor to lie on and enjoy the images projected onto the ceiling; it was superb.

I managed to catch up with quite a few friends during my stay too, squeezing in as many visits as I could between childcare duties, as well as a day in York with Immy, Gemma, Chris and Elliott, an afternoon at Harlow Car gardens with Immy, Jean and Doug and a morning’s mountain biking on a track in Wetherby.

All too soon it was time to leave; my last couple of days were to be spent with my brother and his partner in London. Gemma took me to the railway station and sweet talked the guard into allowing her to join me on the platform until the train left; a couple of minutes later, we were joined by Alex, Graham, Belle and Immy, swiftly followed by Chris, who’d “taken Elliott for a walk”, to the station. They’d had it planned for ages – I couldn’t hold back the tears, it was so lovely that they’d all come to wave me off! My brother suggested that it might be because they were pleased to get rid of me, but I ignored that!

Next stop Peter and Penny’s, where we managed to fit in a visit to my ex-sister in law’s, an afternoon at the Tate and a trip to the Bridge theatre to see the most amazing, spectacular production of “a Midsummer Night’s Dream” that I’ve ever seen. It was Peter’s second time and Penny’s fourth and I can well see why they’d both go back again – it was brilliant, with far too much to take in on a single viewing!

Then home for a much needed rest, as usual at the end of a visiting holiday; it was a quite cultural sort of trip and one I’ll remember fondly for a long time. A couple of days trying to get over the bronchitis I’d caught (I blame the man on the train who coughed incessantly all the way from Peterborough to York) and it was time to prepare for the arrival of my French grandchildren early Friday morning;  I looked after them while Kieran drove to Bordeaux to collect Gemma, Chris and Elliott from the airport for the next stage of their holidays.

After weeks of hot, dry weather, the earth around here is parched and the grass yellow, so it was a great pity that on the evening that Mart and Maarten held their annual party, the forecast was for storms and rain. The weather people often get it completely wrong, so they decided to go ahead anyway.

It was heavy, hot and humid in the afternoon, but sunny, so they put out tables and chairs in the garden; however, precisely as people started arriving, the sky turned from blue to black, there were rumbles of thunder and we felt the first few drops of rain. Within moments it was pouring; tablecloths were removed, chairs folded up, tables put away, and we moved indoors; luckily their house is big enough. It was great to catch up with people I only see at events such as this.

By midnight the rain had stopped; some people went in the pool for a swim, others headed home and by 1am there were just a few of us left, dancing in the garden, splattered occasionally by big, fat raindrops dripping from the trees overhead. It was a great party, as always, in spite of the weather.

The following morning I headed home, hoping I might have time for a little siesta before setting off to play a gig that evening; the siesta, of course, didn’t happen.

I repacked my bags and filled the car with my music stuff, along with a big tarpaulin – the forecast was still not great, and got to Jean Marc’s at 4pm. The gig was in Argelos, his village, the finale of their Bastille day dinner.

Jean Marc had spent the morning building a stage, complete with drum risers, out of three large trailers, topped with big sheets of plywood; it felt remarkably stable. It was at the end of the mairie car park, the rest of which was filled with tables, set for the evening’s meal. We installed our gear and started testing the speakers and mics; the bass speaker wasn’t working, so the lads spent half an hour sorting that, as I  stood in front of it, waiting for sound. Finally it worked – big relief all round.

We did a sound check and played a couple of songs; apparently the sound was excellent, then we were called inside for our dinner. One day we hope to be paid, but for the moment, we just sing for our supper.

By the time we were ready to head back to Jean Marc’s to shower and change, the sky had turned black; we swathed everything in tarpaulins and Jean Mi offered to stay and look after the stuff. A quick change and we were back, a few drops of rain had fallen, but the sky had cleared again and looked set fine for the night.

The meal started, so we found ourselves a quiet spot round the back of the village hall, where we could practice quietly . We were meant to start playing at 9.30, but they were still mid meal, so we waited…………

By 11pm they were having coffee, so we made a start. “Bonjour Argelos” called Jean Mi – no response (and we were definitely loud enough). Those with their backs to us didn’t even turn their heads. So we played the first number – nothing – not one person applauded. And so it continued. For the last few numbers, there were three people sitting on a bench to one side of us, listening and clapping, but that was all. If we hadn’t had such a great reception at the previous gig, I think we’d have been worried; as it was, we just had to keep going, to complete the set, but it’s very difficult to motivate yourself and to give everything you’ve got when there’s no response at all. The other problem was that, apart from a few footlights, we were in the dark, there was no overhead lighting; we’d got little lights for our music stands, but really struggled to see the necks of our instruments, making playing quite difficult.

About half past midnight we finished; nobody from the comité des fêtes, who’d invited us, even came to thank us, so we packed up and went back to Jean Marc’s, feeling more than a little deflated.

Hopefully the next one will be better received.

It’s been getting hotter for weeks now, with temperatures of up to 10° warmer than the average for the time of year; it’s very early in the season for a heatwave and every day it seems to be extended further. Last week they said it would last till Sunday, but now it’s forecast to go on till Wednesday, with peaks between now and then, of up to 42°C. I’m not the only person wondering what July and August are going to bring, though I’m looking forward to my trip to Harrogate over the summer holidays, at least it will be cooler there.

The painting club closes for the summer, so Saturday morning was earmarked for the annual clean. The sun was already hot when we arrived at 8.30, as we emptied the room of tables, chairs and easels, putting them as much as possible in the shade of the building for scrubbing;  other people cleaned the windows, the floor and the fridge.

I had band practice in the afternoon; Jean Marc made space in his garage for my car and Adrian’s motorbike, rather than leaving them in the sun. The studio, in his cellar, is usually cool (freezing in winter), but even with two fans running, it felt uncomfortably hot. By the time we packed up at 6.30 pm, hot, sticky and exhausted, even the mixing desk felt hot to the touch.

I woke early on Sunday, it’s not easy to sleep when the temperature doesn’t drop below 22°C overnight, and went for a walk round the lake. It was a blissfully cool 24°C and misty, the lake looking as though it was gently steaming. It wasn’t even 7.30 and there were very few people about; it was so peaceful and tranquil, the only sound that of the birds singing as though their little hearts would burst. Even the geese, busy looking after their babies, were doing so quietly.

By the end of my second lap, the sun was beginning to break through the cloud and besides, I was getting hungry, I’d set off without breakfast, so I headed home.

My heating system also does aircon; however, my eco-conscience doesn’t like me using it, but in spite of my best efforts, the temperature in my apartment is 28°C. I’m just too English to cope and I’m melting, so I have to confess to turning it on occasionally; other coping strategies include going swimming whenever the pool is open, visits to the cinema (I’ve seen “life of Chuck” twice in the last week, in English and in French – still have lots of questions!) and going for a wander around the shops in the big, air-conditioned shopping centre. I don’t like shopping, but at least it’s cool!

Why are events like buses? They never arrive singly, but in groups.

It was always going to be a busy few days; Kieran’s birthday (cake to make), my birthday (cakes for patchwork and painting clubs), the patchwork club exhibition and, to top it all, a gig for the band to play.

On Thursday we started hanging quilts for the patchwork exhibition; it was chaos, with everyone doing their own thing and no overall plan! I gather that Joce, the president, took charge on Friday and by the time I arrived, with a friend, for the vernissage (official opening) in the evening, it looked great.  It was a lovely evening, but as Seignosse is a 40 minute drive and I had a lot to prepare for Saturday, we didn’t stay late.

The gig was Saturday afternoon, the finale of a big fundraising event run by the international women’s group that I’m part of.

9am Saturday, Jean Michel and Jean Marc picked me up in the van, loaded with drum kit, guitars and the sound system. I have to confess to feeling more like 19 than 69 as I waited in the car park, bass guitar slung over my shoulder,  then climbed up to the middle of the three seats in the van.

We arrived at the venue before 10 o’clock and started setting up, till eventually Adrian arrived, he’d had the longest journey, at over two hours; we started doing the sound checks. The women of the club were great, providing coffee at regular intervals, but they were appalled that nobody wanted beer or wine – what sort of rock band were we? A slightly geriatric one, we explained.

Setting up done, we were brought lunch while everyone else went out to play various games, then we took ourselves off into a store room to practice quietly while the rest of the guests ate.

We started playing about 4pm, once lunch was finished; some of the older members of the audience left, but those who stayed were great, clapping along, dancing and cheering and once we’d finished all our own songs, still wanted more. Adrian suggested that we do “knockin’ on heaven’s door”, but invite the audience to join us; about eight people did, so the gig finished with a great atmosphere, full of fun as we all crowded around the two microphones.

While club members cleared up the main room and the kitchen, we dismantled our gear and stowed it in the van, before heading home. For once I was the nearest and was happy to be dropped  off at home and just flop. I thought I’d sleep like the dead, but I think I was still too high as I tossed and turned all night.

Sunday morning I had to be in Seignosse by 10am for the last day of the patchwork exhibition; we had quite a lot of visitors, including several ladies from the women’s club, along with their partners. We received some lovely comments on our work, including from the local delegate of “France Patchwork”, who took photos and is going to write an article for their magazine.

Some of my work is still in my car as I’m doing a craft exhibition on the side of the lake in St Paul on Wednesday, so it didn’t seem worth taking it out.

Until then, though, I think I’m going to do the absolute minimum – I’m flattened! Maybe I’m getting a bit old for all this, but I love it, so have no intention of stopping just yet.

The band has been asked to play a gig in Messanges, one of three this year. Not many, but losing Michel and my replacing the bass player has meant a lot of learning, and we didn’t want to sign up for anything until we felt ready.

Four weeks before, we tested the sound system in Jean Marc’s garage; it worked fine, but would need testing in a bigger space. For all the gigs we’ve played since I joined the band, we’ve had Pascal, a proper sound man, and all his kit. It was great; we turned up, plugged in, tuned up and did a sound check – so easy. But Pascal’s circumstances have changed and he’s no longer doing the same work, meaning that we now have to supply our own kit, which hadn’t been used in years. We’ll also have to manage without a sound man; nobody to balance the sound as we go along. Ade and Jean Michel have pods to provide different guitar effects and have some control over their volume, but we singers have to control our volume by adjusting the distance from the mics, something I still don’t find easy.

Three weeks to go; we booked Jean Marc’s village hall, where  we spent ages setting up, laying what felt like miles of cables and plugging stuff in. I learnt to differentiate between jacks and XLR’s, which cables to use for the mics, the order in which to put stuff out (instruments last);  I’ll do the lightweight jobs and leave the heavy lifting to the lads. As we didn’t have monitor amps, we’d use an in-ear system. Once it was ready, Ade moved sliders and turned knobs on the mixing desk till he was happy with the balance.

Finally we were ready to go, to turn up the volume enough to fill the room; the sound was horrendous! Apparently as bad in the auditorium space as through our in-ear monitors! Neither of us singers could hear ourselves and the instrumental sound was a horrible mush. Adrian tried all sorts, but had to conclude that the speakers were too old and would only work as monitors. We spent another hour packing it all back into Jean Marc’s van and despondently went home.

Jean Michel called Pascal and arranged to borrow his speakers,  we booked the room again for the following weekend; with just two weeks to go, it needed to work. Pascal’s speakers need a different sort of plug, but at last it was ready to try. Adrian worked to get the balance right, so that everyone could hear themselves as well as everyone else. It took a while to get used to it, but I was beginning to feel more comfortable by the end of the practice.

Michel, our ex-lead singer turned up to listen; his tinnitus is bad, so he was wearing earplugs and ear defenders, but it was great to see him again. He took videos of some of the songs on his phone; the sound isn’t great, but there’s one we might be able to put on our YouTube channel.

At last we could rehearse and everyone played really well, even me (I hate being the weakest link). Being in unfamiliar surroundings often throws me, but this time I managed to keep my concentration and Michel said that what he could hear sounded good, which was a great boost for our self confidence. By 6.30pm we were all flagging; it had been full-on since 1pm, so we packed everything back into the van and Adrian and I set off on our journeys home, leaving Jean Michel and Jean Marc to unload into the studio.

By the time I got home, at 8 pm, I was exhausted, but it felt as though we’d made progress. Once this gig is over, we’ll have to look at buying a new sound system, we can’t rely on borrowing from Pascal all the time.

In amongst all the work, I completely forgot to take photos, sorry!

After living all my married life in houses that we were in the process of renovating, I really appreciate not having loads of DIY to do in my apartment. It’s quite fun to help others though, and being able to walk away from the dust and the rubble at the end of the day.

Adrian, the lead guitarist with the band, lives in a house at the foot of a mountain, on the edge of the Pyrenees;  the terrain is so steep that the mountain comes halfway up the back of his house. His living space is on the first floor; the ground floor (if you look from the front of the house) is workshop and garage.

When it rains heavily the rain pours down the mountainside, straight through the back wall and into his garage and workshop, meaning that several times every year, the whole ground floor is flooded. Not ideal.

He asked a firm for a quote to fix this problem, but it was astronomical; they’d have to empty the place, dig a trench just inside the back and side walls (it seems that digging the trench outside is unfeasible) , and lay pipes, which would drain the water to the ditch outside.

Jean Marc, the drummer in the group, is a retired builder and Jean Michel, singer and guitarist, works in a builders’ merchants. They were horrified when they learned that Ade had asked someone else; why hadn’t he asked them? So Jean Marc spent a day at Adrian’s, assessing what needed doing, as well as the tools and materials he’d need. These were bought, using Jean Michel’s staff discount, and loaded into Jean Marc’s van.

I offered to provide lunch as I wouldn’t be much help with the building work and spent the previous day cooking; two chicken curries, one medium, the other barely spiced, for Jean Michel, who, like many of his compatriots, can’t cope with anything spicy. A chickpea and spinach curry, naan breads and a raita completed the main course, to be followed by the inevitable lemon meringue pie, without which I wouldn’t dare show my face at Ade’s. He got in rice and beers.

By the time I arrived they’d cut the trench in the workshop, the lower of the two rooms, and were starting to dig it out. The place was full of noise, dust and a very positive vibe. I even felt quite useful when they were looking for something; of course all the shelving and other storage was shoved together on one side of the room – I was the only one skinny enough to squeeze through the little gaps.

The farmer across the road brought his tractor, with a big digger shovel attached, so that they could dump the rubble in it; he’d find a hole to lose it in.

By lunchtime they’d dug out the trench and were hungry; they’d had an early start. We all tucked in and they all declared themselves full after two or three helpings, till I got out the lemon meringue pie, a big one, which they cut into four, demolishing most of it along with ice cream – I think they all have separate pudding compartments 🤣.

Then back to work, mixing the mortar to fill the trench and scraping a groove in it to match the half circle guttering that would collect the water. At the lower end they cut a rectangular hole, a bit bigger, to form a sump that will house a small pump.

They hadn’t finished by the time I left, but the sky was turning very black and a storm was forecast. I had an interesting journey home with lightning flashing all around and rain coming in the windows, as they refused to close. Eventually I managed to close them, by pushing the “open” button; a problem with the electrics, I suppose.

For now, they’ve only done the lower room, the workshop, Ade will see if this sorts the problem and we’ll go back to do the second part later on, if necessary.

I’d collected fabrics for a Gustave Klimt style quilt for one of the gîte bedrooms when we lived in Caupenne, but hadn’t got round to actually making it, so decided to use the fabrics for my spare room instead.

About a year ago, the time felt right; I got out all the fabrics and spread them out on the bed, to see how they all went together and to weed out anything that didn’t go. However, there seemed to be fewer of the dark colours than I remembered; I searched high and low, could even envisage specific pieces of fabric, but couldn’t find them anywhere. Eventually I gave up and went to my local fabric shop; I was in luck – they had, in the patchwork department, a selection of Klimt cottons – I spent rather more than I should have, but they were irresistible!

I added the new fabrics to the old, spread out on the white duvet in the spare room, when my eye was drawn to the cushions at the head of the bed; three cushions, each with two, dark, Klimt style fabrics pinned around it. I remembered then; the room had looked too stark, too white, when Alex and her family came at Christmas, so I’d wrapped the cushions in quilting cottons, pinned in place as I’d no time to do more than that.

I’d have more fabric than I needed, but I can make cushions and maybe a coat……. After all, you can never have too much fabric!

I drew up a design and even followed it for the middle section, but then changed my mind and made the rest up as I went; I’m not good at following patterns, even my own.

It’s the biggest quilt I’ve ever made and I knew that quilting it by machine would be challenging and I’m far too impatient to quilt by hand, so I made it in three separate pieces, which I quilted to within a couple of inches of the joining edges, then stitched them together, leaving me only narrow strips to quilt once it was all assembled.

Once the top was finished, I’d have to quilt it. Most of the quilting is “stitched in the ditch”, a technique where you stitch in the seam between two pieces of fabric; it has to be virtually invisible, so is very precise and time consuming. Other bits, though, like the larger pieces of swirly fabric, I decided to do in free motion embroidery, following the swirly pattern on one of the fabrics; I couldn’t believe how much thread this used as I went back to Mondial Tissus again and again for more gold thread. In all I used about 400 metres, just of the gold.

Finally, it’s finished. The patchwork club wants it for our summer exhibition, so I’ve added hanging sleeves to the back. I’m pleased with it; it looks lovely on the bed and brings the whole room together. Cushions? I’ll do them sometime, but I’ve so many other projects to get on with in the meantime.