Of course I didn’t actually witness this final débacle at Fenway.
Mindful of the recent experience of friends further to the west, whose wi-fi router had been blown by a distressingly accurate lightning strike, I had turned off router, TV and computer. Out of touch with the world beyond St Quentin, and marooned in our small village home which is, as it has for nearly a quarter of a century, resisting the force of the rains and other elements, we are free to focus on those things which really matter.
Food and wine, reading and writing, music and conversation.
We are indulging ourselves in each.
We have eaten rather well recently, notably at La Table d’Uzès where the ridiculously young and ridiculously talented Chef Oscar Garcia is cooking up a Michelin-starred storm and from the simpler but no less delicious menu at Café Fleurs in Isle-sur-la-Sorgues.
We are drinking a variety of excellent local wines as friends introduce us to the lesser-known growers of the Rhône valley, some of which are worthy of mention in the same sentence as our favourite La Gramière and all of which are extremely quaffable.
We are reading and re-reading voraciously, notably The Lacuna by Barbara Kingsolver, a writer who is apparently famous but of whom I have unaccountably never heard before. She’s good. So too, it goes without saying, is Bill Bryson - and I am taking up the recommendation of a new friend (a Blue Jays fan!) who advised me to read One Summer as a matter of urgency.
We are working hard at our respective disciplines: I writing at my laptop, Jill painting at her easel.
And as ever, we are chattering away with each other and with friends, about books and sports, politics and anything that happens to come to mind as we order a second pichet of local rouge and sit back to listen to a ragtag band of busking musicians.
But there will be no al fresco dining, drinking and debating today. It is still raining and there is no wind to blow away this meteorological freak of nature. Even Rob Lowe and his family have had to be rescued by the sapeurs pompiers from their flooded mansion sécondaire in Grasse.
But in St Quentin la Poterie, we are made of sterner stuff. I wonder if the Cuisine du Boucher is opening for lunch ...
Today from the everysmith vaults: It's been a singer-songwriter kind of morning with Jill listening to Jeff Buckley upstairs and Carol and I chilling to Sweet Baby James Taylor at the Fillmore East in 1971 and to the much-missed John Martyn.