À la Recherche du Temps Perdu

I sat down two days ago to sort out a bag of paperwork that has been sitting, minding its own business for six months. I have to confess that we are neither very tidy nor very organised about lots of things, paperwork being top of the list. Or bottom of the list, depending on which way you look at it.
I was only driven to do something about it now because I want my bag back.

I have my bag back at last!

The trouble with us is that every now and again we can no longer cope with not being able to see the kitchen table. (Literally.) At this point lots of virtuous people would sit down and sort out the offending mass of mess. Sometimes I too am virtuous, but if there are too many other things going on, I sweep the whole lot into a tottering pile and shove it into the first box or bag that comes to hand.
Thus is was six months ago, and unfortunately, the first empty receptacle that came to hand was the lovely bag my mother gave me last Christmas.
Since then I have added to its contents, but not taken anything away.

I never know which side I like best

Happily - by chance rather than planning - the electricity has not been cut off, and neither have the bailiffs arrived at the door in the interim. There were bank statements, bills, receipts, newspaper cuttings, work stuff, notes to self, telephone messages and what-all else... but now, after my final stint with the bag this morning, I have reduced its contents to several piles: a large one of rubbish, one of filing (which - alas - could be the start of the next bagful, unless I actually file the wretched stuff), a small pile of 'in urgent need of attention' and a somewhat larger pile of 'on-going'. But, I have my bag back.
I also have a little heap of scraps which I discovered stuffed down amidst all the bills and receipts, which turned out to be the paraphernalia we brought back from Paris in June.

Oh joy! Needless to say, I spent more time going through that than I did the dreary bank statements.
It was the typical ephemera one brings back from holiday. At least, I presume 'one' does. We certainly always seem to have bags and pockets full of cafe receipts, gallery cards, museum tickets, maps and who knows what.

Jardin du Luxembourg

So much else has happened this summer that I haven't spent much time mentally revisiting our lovely trip to Paris, so it was very nice to sort through all the bits and bobs.

'A litre and a half of bottled water only costs 23c in Paris' I told the In-Charge, apropos of very little. A supermarket bill - which I probably didn't glance at at the time, now made riveting reading.
'Did we really spend  €14 on a cup of coffee and a glass of wine?' I asked in disbelief as I picked up the next slip of paper.
'I expect it was Les Deux Magots or that expensive cafe at St Michel,' he replied, and added sagely: 'It's a bit late to be worrying about that now.'
How true. And now that I recall, it was St Michel, and we'd dodged in out of bucketing rain at the time, and we really hadn't cared at all.

St Michel another day - watching the brilliant street performers

I found a list of incomprehensible notes scribbled on a scrap of card and puzzled over it for several minutes before remembering that we had, at long last, after I don't know how many previous visits to Paris, spent a happy afternoon exploring each and every one of the Passages - some in sad disrepair, others a total delight. If the notes I'd jotted down were even slightly decipherable, they'd be a useful guide next time round, but sadly even I can't get to the bottom of my own scrawl.

One of Paris's beautiful Passages

Probably the most famous of the Passages

And here's another - with colourful guerilla knitting decorating the entrance!

Another dog-end of paper revealed my approximation of the recipe that must have been used to concoct one of the most delicious tartes it was my pleasure to sample. So good was it, in fact, that we had to re-visit  Le Bistrot du Peintre several times to test it all over again. It never failed to hit the spot. I'd forgotten about it, but I must have an experimental session in the kitchen. (Current note to self: buy oranges, almonds and ingredients for sweet pastry deliciousness.)

Inside Le Bistrot du Peintre

And speaking of deliciousness, the next item to emerge was the business card of a chap we'd got chatting to in the Marché Bourse. He plied us with samples of his wares, and told us that although he got up before dawn every morning to cook, it was all worthwhile as he went to Boston several times a year to visit his sister. He was Lebanese, and his food was so delectable, we bought enough for supper that night and a picnic lunch in the Jardin du Luxembourg the next day. (And while we were talking to him, two girls came up and presented us with a shopping bag listing all the Paris street markets, their arrondissements and addresses. How cool is that!)


There was a receipt from the Kilo Shop - the wonderful emporium on St Germain where vintage clothes are sold by weight; train tickets from our trip to Monet's garden at Giverny; passes for the Musée d'Orsay (probably my favourite of all the Paris art museums) and a billet for the Sainte Chapelle - another favourite place of incomparable beauty.

Gingham shirts in the Kilo Shop

Inside the wonderful Musée d'Orsay

Some of the amazing, original floor tiles in the Sainte Chapelle

One of the windows of the Sainte Chapelle (taken, sadly, with my phone camera)

The Rose window - also, alas, taken with my phone camera

It didn't do much to reduce the pile of paperwork, but it was a very happy half hour remembering our holiday in Paris.

'There's an un-used Metro ticket here,' I said, picking up a little blue and orange-stamped Mobilis from some carnet we bought along the line.
'I suppose we'll have to go back then,' the In-Charge replied.
It can't happen too soon.

The famous bridge in Monet's garden at Giverny

Paeony Envy

I'm suffering very badly from paeony envy at the moment.
Unjust, I know, as my own paeonies are flowering their little pink hearts out.
Despite the rain.

What you can't see in this picture is the gold at the centre of the flower

Sarah Bernhardt strutting her stuff

But on our recent trip to Salthill Garden in Donegal, the paeonies would have struck lust into the hearts of all but the most saintly.
We nearly wore them out with looking at them.

Elizabeth Temple, their owner, could have told us the name of each and every one. But unfortunately, she wasn't at home that day. She'd been kind enough to warn me, and even suggested we come another day, but it was the only time I was free.
She is extremely knowledgeable and I daresay would have had all their Latin and colloquial names off pat.
 

Like this one

  And particularly this one

But it wouldn't have done any good. My friend and I have looked - believe me, we have looked in all the garden centres, but there is no Bowl of Beauty to be found locally. Nor any of the other ones we saw (though names would help, I'm sure).

Sadly, I have to confess that it's not just paeony envy that plagues me.

While we were in Paris, we went to see Monet's garden. It was our 900th wedding anniversary and, as I have long wanted to visit Giverny, I couldn't think of a better way to spend it. Happily the In-Charge was agreeable.

Monet's house at Giverny from the lily pond

I had not taken the crowds of other visitors into account, I must say.
In fact, I hadn't really thought about it, but I suppose I imagined us strolling, arm in arm, along the flower-lined paths as if we owned the place.
Hah!

I am evidently not alone in knowing that late May is garden-visiting-time.
As we set off, de bonne heure on Sunday morning, the In-Charge commented acidly on how full the train was, but I cleverly remembered that it was Mother's Day in France. 'They're all heading home  to their Mamas,' I said brightly. 'Isn't that nice!'
It only dawned on me as the train emptied ontoVernon platform, that all and sundry were bent upon sharing our day out.

There were four full coach loads from the station, and that didn't include people who had arrived under their own steam, so to speak, or on other bus trips.
However, I sternly repudiated the In-Charge's hopeful suggestion that we board the next train back to Paris, and actually, although there were a lot of people, the gardens are big enough to swallow them up and we didn't feel crowded - except on the famous bridge over the lily pond.
It was worth every moment of queueing to get in.

We had, sadly, just missed most of the famed tulips, but the wisteria was in full, hyperbolic bloom.

The famous bridge over the lily pond

Luscious beyond belief

And so were the flags.

Look - there's a paeony in bud beside the flag. I need to go back there - now!

I have wisteria.
It doesn't garland a bridge over a lily pond, admittedly, but even so, I do get my wisteria fix every spring.

But I don't have flags. Not really.
Not rows and rows of glorious, wonderful, beautiful flags.

My friend - with whom I visited Salthill - and I pored over a French catalogue a few years ago, from a nursery that specialises in flags and irises. We drooled, we ooh'd and we aah'd, and I eagerly jotted down the names of all the plants I couldn't possibly live without.
The bill added up to about €187 - before shipping - so with deep regret I threw the catalogue away.
'We don't have enough sunshine, in any case,' I tried to console myself. 'They need hours or sun every day to flower properly.'
But I am not really consoled
Deep down I want a walkway in my garden lined with flags, preferably on either side.
Like Pierre Berge's garden in Deauville.
Like Monet's garden at Giverny.
Like the Tuileries gardens in Paris.

Or failing that, a purple border (with flags in it).

A purple border at Giverny

Is that too much to ask?
It's all I want.
Well - apart from the paeonies.

And I'm rather envious of Monet's pansies too...