Courtesy of the authors. There are less tourists. There are no more queues on the pavement to get in the house.
Life becomes easier, more genuine, a little calmer.
A wet garden in Giverny when October already starts flaming with reddening vine on the nearby walls, when all around suddenly looks like a village with its inhabitants, its school with the slanting yard, its rhythm, its identity. The word is gentle to say, it trickles down the throat like Muscat wine. Everywhere at the beginning of autumn there is quince jelly and blackberry jelly being made. Here Monet used to stroll in his garden preparing jams of light. I walk into the wet and grey garden.