I’m a great one for sharing – ideas, plant seedlings, seeds, recipes, news, disasters in the orchard, you name it.
But I am not going to share with you the address of my favourite shop.
Actually I don’t know why I am being so coy; it’s not as if most of you live anywhere near my secret.
But unless you torture or beg, let me just show you what I found when I last popped in.
I don’t know what they were used for; but as the handles of the jugs are so sturdy (even on the little ones) I guess it must have been for liquid. Were we in Britain, I must have suspected beer production. But brass and wine don’t fit. So if anyone knows, let me know.
The wonderful price means that it makes about five euros a jug; the teensy one fits just a rose, but the huge tall ones are going to be perfect for tall valerian plants or just any massed three foot stem. There are some flopping irises just waiting to be rescued.
I did a lap of the shop which has become a lot more orderly than before. I have been visiting for nine years now; and it is where I found the windows for my potting shed; all the ceramic urns for my willow stems and flowers, my gorgeous tea cup. The chaise longue in my potting shed. (Artur is modelling it here.)
In fact now that I think about it; this one cavernous shop has supplied a lot of the visual fun in our house. And my potting shed.
The place is run by three men and I tend to think of them as three brothers. For years it has been a bit chaotic and there was an awful lot of tatt in among the gems.
But for a year now I like to think the more aesthetically minded brother has had the upper hand. There is a lot more order now. And more glass-cased treasures, rather than piles and piles of cheap rusting agricultural machinery.
Even though I love the rusting junk; I’m more delighted to see shelves and shelves of vintage linen, teacups, collectable tins, and of course these sorts of vases and jugs.
There is enough turnover that you really do need to do a lap every now and then. I contrive to get down there every few months as they have the usual French opening hours and I’m often driving past during their two hour lunch break.
But that might not be a bad thing. Just think of all the temptations. But as Lisa knows, these sorts of places are just the tonic and one of the reasons why we love rural French life: you just never know what will turn up.