Summer...

"...summertime, and the living is easy..." - Gershwin

Martin Parr From 'Think of England.' Eastbourne, England. G.B. 1995-1999. © Martin Parr | Magnum Photos

I feel much more aware of the summer since moving to France. Which may be because the school holidays didn’t really factor into my pre-children life in London. Summer in London was marked mostly by switching from beer to cider, from inside the pub to the pub garden and meeting friends at Victoria park rather than someone’s place on a Sunday. But, in France, the summer isn’t just a season, it’s a whole mood.

Martin Parr Weymouth, England. G.B. 2000. © Martin Parr | Magnum Photos

Every year in France, without fail, June is a month of intense activity. Every extra-curricular hobby the kids do wants to do a show or concert, the school schedules things it’s been meaning to all year (parents evening, swimming lessons, bake sales) and needs to use the last of its budget for outings, fetes, more concerts. Each event requiring meticulous delivery of additional materials for the kids (black t-shirt with no motifs, white trainers and pink socks, swim hat, goggles and snack). And every parent whose child has a birthday from June to August suddenly remembers and organises a party. At the same time, all offices become frantic trying to finish off projects “before the summer”. Because if it’s not done by the beginning of July, then it’s not happening until September.

Just when it seems like the entire nation is on the edge of burning out*…

… it stops. School stops. Work slows down. Shops shut. Terrace bars open. Mini-festivals pop-up everywhere. It’s officially summer!

Martin Parr From 'The Last Resort'. New Brighton, England, Great Britain. 1983-85. © Martin Parr | Magnum Photos

I sometimes find the shift in gears jarring. Almost like I’m forgetting something important. We really don’t have anywhere we need to be? But because the whole country is doing the same thing, at roughly the same time, it gets easier every year we’re here.

The alarm clock gets chucked in a corner until September . The paddling pool gets filled up. The ice-lollies get put in the freezer and the wine goes in the fridge. And for eight little weeks**, we get to dictate the pace of our lives in a way we don’t normally get to. And I love it!

Martin Parr Westbay, England. GB. 1996. © Martin Parr | Magnum Photos

I love the way the summer progresses with its own rhythm. July is marked (normally) by bright sunshine and jubilation as everyone decompresses, easing into later evenings and lie-ins, catching up with friends before the August exodus. Then comes August (normally) sun blazing, high in the sky and days long, hot and languid. Everyone is away, holidaying in their favourite spots, napping, swimming and enjoying copious amounts of Charentais melon and rosé. Followed by the final week before the rentrée, everyone seems a little weary, the plants have lost the vibrancy of early summer, there’s a rush to stock up on school supplies and a little bit of relief to return to some kind of structure once again.

So, before I wish the summer away, this is me signing for two glorious weeks of camping - bonnes vacances!

*Thanks Macron for the snap election and near miss slide into fascism to really up the ante this year!

**I actually only take 2 - 3 weeks holiday each summer, it’s the kids who are off for the full 8 weeks. But so much of the rhythm of our family life is dictated by their school life. And, given that nearly everyone takes their big annual leave now, even though I’m still on the office, it’s a lot quieter.

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A poem… Summer (a love poem) by Frank Lima

I wanted to be sure this was our island
so we could walk between the long stars by the sea
though your hips are slight and caught in the air
like a moth at the end of a river around my arms
I am unable to understand the sun your dizzy spells
when you form a hand around me on the sand

I offer you my terrible sanity
the eternal voice that keeps me from reaching you
though we are close to each other every autumn
I feel the desperation of a giant freezing in cement
when I touch the door you're pressed against
the colour of your letter that reminds me of flamingos

isn't that what you mean?
the pleasure of hands and
lips wetter than the ocean
or the brilliant pain of
breathless teeth in a
turbulent dream on a roof
while I thought of nothing
else except you against
the sky as I unfolded you
like my very life a liquid
signal of enormous love we
invented like a comet that
splits the air between us!

the earth looks shiny wrapped in steam and ermine
tired of us perspiring at every chance on the floor
below I bring you an ash tray out of love for the
ice palace because it is the end of summer the end
of the sun because you are in season like a blue
rug you are my favorite violin when you sit and 
peel my eyes with your great surfaces seem intimate
when we merely touch the thread of life and kiss

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A recipe… rhubarb and elderflower tray bake

I had a very weird date the other day. Whilst I went to the bar, the guy bumped into his ex-girlfriend, and then proceeded to spend the rest of the date talking to her. The upside was that I befriended her (equally disregarded) date. Who turned out to be a local, organic farmer who does vente directe - a few days later, I stopped by the farm and bought some rhubarb and made this, one of my favourites! It’s super easy and tastes like summer in a cake!

An added bonus that the elderflower cordial was made by my dear friend, Heather.

Ingredients

• 250g rhubarb

• 20g caster sugar

For the cake:

• 200g unsalted butter, softened

• 250g caster sugar

• 1 lemon, zest finely grated

• 3 tbsp elderflower cordial

• 3 large eggs

• 260g plain flour

• ¼ tsp salt

• 1½ tsp baking powder

• 100g soured cream or plain yoghurt, at room temperature

For the icing:

• 100g icing sugar

• 2 -3 tbsp elderflower cordial

Method

• Grease and line a 20cm x 25cm baking tin with greaseproof paper, leaving enough overhang to help you lift out the cake later, and heat the oven to 180C (160C fan)/350F/gas 4.

• Wash the rhubarb, trim off the ends, then chop the stalks into 5cm chunks. Add to a bowl with the caster sugar, toss to coat and set aside.

  Cream the butter, sugar and lemon zest in a stand mixer or with an electric whisk for three to five minutes, until pale and creamy. Pour in the cordial, beat for a few more seconds to combine. Add the eggs one at a time, beating well after each addition.

• In a separate bowl, mix the flour, salt and baking powder, then pour half of this into the egg mixture and mix on low speed until just combined. Pour in the soured cream, mix again briefly, then stir in the remaining flour.

• Spoon the batter into the tin, smooth the surface, then top with the rhubarb without pushing the pieces into the batter.

• Bake for 35-40 minutes, until a skewer inserted into the centre comes out clean, then remove and leave to cool completely.

• For the icing, mix the icing sugar with enough cordial to make a thick, but pourable glaze. Drizzle this over the cooled cake, then slice and serve.

The recipe is originally by Benjamina Ebuehi’s and was published by The Guardian 27 May 2022.

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A (very) short story… The Garden

Walking into that suburban garden, I squinted into the light, dreading the dull afternoon ahead. Women I couldn’t relate to and their boorish boyfriends hogging the BBQ and conversation. Then, back-lit by the sun, there you were. The most magnetic creature I ever laid eyes on. Your dark, elfin face peeking out from a mop of black hair. Your lithe arms and legs covered in tattoos. You were the coolest person I had ever seen, and to my surprise, you wanted to talk to me. 

The afternoon comes to me in flashes now. The sun-glinting in my beer, amber. The smell of grass, the BBQ, your cigarettes and hair. Snippets of our conversation, the cats we'd adopt, jokes about Tegan and Sara, and running away to Brighton together. I see you leap from the garden wall, all limbs, and in my mind you are still so alive, so viscerally and vibrantly alive.

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A song… Strawberry Letter 23 by Shuggie Otis

I was introduced to Shuggie Otis in my late-teens one summer by a guy I had a massive crush on. I remember sitting on the steps in his garden, sun on my face, mug of tea in one hand, him passing me a rollie, hearing this for the first time, and thinking that the moment couldn’t be more perfect.