Saoirse started crying during dinner a few nights ago. We’d just returned from an evening stroll around our temporary home, St. Pierre de Maille, where spring has taken a definitive hold. Along the walk we’d passed by fields plowed and freshly seeded, cattle finally out on pasture, neighbors out doing the seasonal work that comes with permanent residence: cleaning brush, tilling gardens, planting vegetables. It felt odd watching other people carry on the work we would ordinarily be doing around our own home. By the time we’d made it to our supper table overlooking the river that runs through the village, her young soul was pining for the rhythms of our own home life, sorely missing those activities that define spring time back in West Fulton.

We reminded her that it was 30 degrees at home, disturbingly muddy, and nowhere near the start of the growing season. Indeed, since we are so much farther behind with spring at home, she will get a full immersion into season and all the labors that accompany it soon enough. She’s only missing mud season. We also pointed out that we’re nearing the end of our stay in this village, and we’ve crossed the half way marker in our travels.

And then she started crying more. “But I feel bad leaving here!” she lamented. We tutted, tched, and suggested that there was just no pleasing her.

But she was right. We didn’t come to this part of France because we wanted to visit chateaus, churches and museums every day. We had a few tourist destinations in mind, but our primary aim was to immerse ourselves in French culture and to enjoy village life. And that makes moving on pretty tough.

We’ve gotten to know a lot of our neighbors, become regulars at the nearby farmers’ markets, habitually visited the local independent grocer and baker, walked to church with Madame Peltier next door (who graciously prolongued the walk so that she could introduce our family to everyone else in the village), made friends with local dogs, cats, river ducks and a horse, found walking buddies, joined a yoga class, spent time with another home schooling family, attended a choir concert, picked up a few knitting and mending tips, walked barefoot along the village footpaths, and hung our laundry out along with everyone else. We’ve folded paper boats to float on the river, done watercolors of village scenes, sipped tea while watching the sunset, read books, cooked lots of new dishes, knitted, read, learned to play chess, sniffed all the different flowers perfuming the air, experimented with making flutes from the bamboo growing along the waters’ edge, and last night sat back while Saoirse and Ula took over the kitchen and played French restaurant while Bob and I dined al fresco. In our final days here, we’ve absolutely no tourism on our schedule, and yet we find ourselves endlessly occupied with this place.

I fully understand Saoirse’s angst. We came to this place with the hope of connecting with it, and our hopes have been completely fulfilled. That’s a bittersweet experience. Like Saoirse, Bob and I envy the chores of permanence we see the other villagers complete – I long to prune my roses and check on the blueberry bushes, to greet the spring lambs and start making sausage for the opening day of our own farmers’ market. Bob frets about his bees, makes plans to weave new baskets, and talks about our new planting projects. At the same time, we don’t want our bliss to end. We made a choice to connect with a foreign community, rather than just breezing through it to snap photos. That makes moving on sad. Happily, when we do leave France, it will be to return to a life that we love dearly, and that tugs at our hearts even when we are away from it, no matter how much pleasure we take in our time here. And even better, we get to miss mud season.