Last night I dreamt I went to
Manderley again. It seemed to me I stood by the iron gate leading to the
drive, and for a while I could not enter, for the way was barred
to me. There was a padlock and a chain upon the gate. I called in my
dream to the lodge-keeper, and had no answer, and peering closer through
the rusted spokes of the gate I saw that the lodge was
uninhabited. No smoke came from the chimney, and the little
lattice windows gaped forlorn. Then, like all dreamers, I was
possessed of a sudden with supernatural powers and passed like a spirit through
the barrier before me.
(Daphne du Maurier)
Last night I dreamt I went to Maison
Pierre again. There was Maison Pierre,
secretive and silent as it had always been, the grey stone shining in the
moonlight of my dream.
We are back in our French house and feeling
like intruders because we know it is not ours any more.
But we are surrounded by our personal
possessions, the old brown leather armchairs, our pictures on the walls, our books on the shelves.
We know we are not supposed
to be there and must hurry and go before the new owners return.
A strange and recurring dream.
Of course we miss our old home in France and the long, lazy summers. I miss
the old house with its crumbling walls and creaky stairs.
I miss the owls in the tower. I miss the
views across the valley. I miss the happy times we had there with friends and
I miss that feeling of excitement
and anticipation for our life ahead that we had when we first moved out there.
But Lincolnshire is a good consolation prize and we are making new friends
and memories here.
If only the sun could
stay out a bit longer!
The country lanes
are as quiet here as those in the Dordogne and cycling is still a pleasure.
If we ever go back to France for a holiday we shall explore a different
region, it would be unbearably poignant to visit our old haunts.