Catherine Berry's Blog, page 4

Not quite full circle.The olive tree has produced for the first time and it feels momentous. It has survived years of overseas separation, a journey of its own (from Melbourne to Sydney when we returned from France) and neglect (left to thrive for way too long before I noticed it and gave it some attention). And the chair under the olive tree? Before France, it was rescued from a rubbish pile on

The Blue Mountains near Sydney, AustraliaI couldn't sleep on Saturday night. It was a combination of being in an unknown place, in a strange bed and a lot on my mind. The insistent drumming was a soothing melody, I told myself, and not a strident get-up-now call. My mind game must have worked as when I woke several hours later, it was still raining but the cool, confident drummer had finished his

I wandered for many years. Home, then, was the place that my parents lived in and the boxes (stumbling blocks, literally and figuratively) that I lugged with me from one rental abode to the next remained unpacked, unsightly; signposting unremittingly the fact that I was not at home. Having my own children changed that. Slightly. But my devotion was to them, their happiness and their safety. Home

Tug, bundle, scoop up and in. "Hmm. Efficiently done. Nicely done," I mused. I reached for the washing liquid, gave the product drawer a jaunty hip bump, leant down to close the machine door and pressed 'start.' Hublot, porthole ... washing machine door. And with a nod and another self-reflective "hmm,'' I listened to the first whooshes, signalling the arrival of the water in the cavity. So much

 Weaving a French Life: An Australian story is out.I broke all the rules. There was no cover reveal, I set up no pre-orders, didn't alert my mailing list (you'd have to have one to do that), I had no launch party ... just heaved one big sigh that it is done.In the end, discretion suited me best. Contradictory? Probably, given that I blog, advertise, post to FaceBook and Instagram. But, as I am

2020 has been a bumpy year, but one of those jolts flung me with great insistence back to my desk. Weaving a French Life: An Australian story, a sequel to But you are in France, Madame, is the result. I'm not quite there, but hope to give you a purchase link by the end of next week.On the 14th August, I was at 24000 words. I wrote every day and for more hours than I was physically comfortable

Five years ago, I wrote 'But you are in France, Madame.' I had no particular aspiration to tell my story, no desire to hold a published book in my hands, no illusion that I was doing the world a service by writing - and certainly no belief that it would be a money-making venture. So, why did I do it? I guess it was for me. The thing is that I did not realise that at the time. Neither did I truly

I moved my desk downstairs a week or so ago. Historically, when we bought this house and all three children were still living at home, there was not enough room to have a study of my own. My desk was placed in the kitchen and didn't ever get moved out. I haven't minded, particularly during lockdown, as it has meant that I have been blessed with lovely meandering conversations as different

I ran up the stairs yesterday with a smug feeling: no idea why, but I was feeling pretty happy with myself. My slipper caught the top of the step. I didn't fall, but I was quite literally taken down a peg. Slightly more cautiously, I rounded the entrance to the kitchen. My shoulder caught the wall. Again, I steadied myself and spun slowly around a couple of times... reflective. Positivity; not

Is there a right time for France? Yes.
Is there a perfect time? No.

I'm not talking about a holiday, but the question of how one decides on the timing for that big French trip - family adventure, permanent move, year-long sabbatical...?

The thing is, most of us, given a little encouragement, will choose inertia; what we are familiar or comfortable with. It takes effort, commitment, and a real