A drift on the raft the gentle breeze imperceptibly maneuvering me its sole passenger around the lake. The lake that is ours albeit for this week our own private Idaho of a lake. Gliding past rushes, gorse and a multitude of waterside greenery. Observing close up the iridescent blue dragonflies as they mate, one atop the others head, a dance of a balancing act pairs pair up sharing the same leaf. Frogs languishing in boggy grassland leap to the waters safety whenever we pass, long legs stretching out, the splosh as they land and the carp, oh the carp! Gliding with stealth after our vessel each time we cast off from dry land, mouths agape like suction hoovers tousling over morsels thrown and then discarding them from their gullets. Trying everything in their pursuit for the edible, toes and heels are sucklingly savoured their bodies glistening in the ever present gaze of the high summer sun. Frogs croak amidst the constant chatter of birds high up in the surrounding green canopy. The duck house on the lake sits empty, its residents mascaraed when one winter the water froze over and nothing stood in the way between bird and fox. Languishing now naked atop this sturdy vessel, a low rumble of thunder in the skies and the searing heat of the July Dordogne sun on my back. I feel I have entered a realm of half remembered childhood, of lamb white days spent wide open in summers gaze. This lake, its inhabitants, the surrounding wildlife my sole accompliment to these lazy days. By night we retreat to the cabin, our cabin where meals are made, candles lit and stories told on the deck. This life strongly reminiscent in me of an existence simple and nurturing calling its call, intelligible to my soul, “come home”, “come home”.