A Decade of Time...

As I holiday in the exact same spot that I visited 11 years ago when I decided to quit uni and start my business, I reflect on the changes and similarities of life a decade later...

The view from our terrace here.

As I type this morning, I’m sat in the cool kitchen courtyard of our gîte down in the South of France.

My eldest son, Jude is sat next to me drawing Disney princesses. The youngest, Valentine is snoozing still in his bed, and everyone else is out running or cycling, taking advantage of the cooler early hours.

This place is beautiful- a small town set deep in the heart of a green valley, clustered around a deliciously cooling river about half an hour’s drive from Carcasonne. The roads weaving their way out from this point are tightly coiled and steep, and the hills on all sides are broad- I feel cocooned, far away from reality. The buildings here are old- it’s all pale-golden slabs of stone, shiny-smooth cobbles studding the narrow streets and French blue paint softly flaking from the shutters like pastry. If I’d arrived here for the first time last Saturday, weary from a three day drive and sweaty from the 40 degree heatwave they’re currently having here, I would have loved this place straight away.

As it happens, I’ve been here before.

11 years ago a 22 year old Paris first became acquainted with this little French town. 11 years, 2 children, 1 business, 2 houses, and countless life lessons separate me from the girl I was then, and yet the feeling as I clicked the car door shut behind me was less fresh delight and more a warm, deep familiarity.

Since I’ve been back here this time, I’ve traced the steps of that younger Paris. I swim in the same parts of the river. I walk over the same bridges and gaze at the same buildings. I even eat in the same restaurants and buy bread at the same hour of the morning from the same mildly grumpy woman. I jog the same early morning routes, still following in the same solid footsteps of my Dad, just like she did.

Running down the hillside yesterday, I passed the monastery that’s nestled into the valley here. I was struck by a scene- a quiet postcard I captured in my mind’s eye. It’s wriggled its way into my head and I keep revisiting its idyllic simplicity in my thoughts.

A monk stood in the shady, dappled space underneath the low boughs of fig trees. His cream robe fell to his toes, plain apart from the long, simple, silver crucifix that hung at his navel. A broad, simple straw sunhat kept the morning sun from his face, and he bent to pet a fuzzy, black goat merrily hopping about his feet, its bell jingling softly towards me, through the already heat-hazy air.

My mind leapt on the idyl. A moment in time, added to my mental collection.

Sometimes when I’m stressed, I revisit these snapshots in my head.

For some reason, the simplicity of the moment drew me back to younger Paris. What she was feeling when she last came here, last ran down this same road past this same monastery. I spent the remainder of my run contemplating- catapulted back to that headspace.

11 years ago, I came to this little town with my parents, three sisters and boyfriend (the same Sam who is now my partner.) I remember I had just finished my year out at uni. A year in industry that changed the course I was following. I had already been weary from the first two years at uni and that gap year had been the final straw for me- in truth, the realities I'd experienced of the fashion industry were already more than niggles. I knew deep in my gut by this point that I wouldn't be able to go back to uni for my final year and finish a course which would lead me onto a job as part of the fashion industry I’d experienced up to that point. It was whilst I was wandering the streets here in this little town that I made my decision.

Wandering the cobbled streets.

If you walk the winding streets here, more than likely you’ll meander your way to a small market place of sorts, with the old, covered meeting space at its centre. You might dawdle around the perimeter, have a nosey in the windows. You’d perhaps come across a small shop, just as I did 11 years ago. A red, heavy door propped open, and a busy display of leather sandals spilling out. Inside, leather goods of all kinds and colours. Lime green belts, hot pink purses, a stack of soft slippers in warm chestnut and pastel mint. So much to touch and look at. It's a beautiful little shop crammed with handmade goodness. I liked it. But what came next was what really captured my imagination. A tanned, happy face peered round an opening in one corner of the shop.

“Bonjour!”