Leaving Foix: Why Saying Goodbye to Our French Home Feels Harder Every Year

All of us in Andorra!

Today is our last full day at Camping du Lac in Foix.

Tomorrow morning, we will pack the car and start the long journey back to England. We are taking our time this year. Our first stop will be Limoges tomorrow night, then we will continue north before taking the Channel Tunnel on Wednesday.

But right now, none of us really wants to think about that.

I am sitting alone on the terrace with a coffee and a pain au chocolat, looking towards the Pyrénées, and I feel genuinely sad.

Almost a month ago, I was here writing about getting everything ready for this trip. The bags, the car, the things we would probably forget, the excitement of knowing that four weeks in France were ahead of us.

And suddenly, it is over.

We rent this place. It isn't ours. But after coming here every summer, spending a month here each year, it has somehow become our French home.

For eleven months of the year, our life is in England. Then, for one month, life changes completely.

We slow down.

We buy baguettes that still somehow cost very little. We wander around French supermarkets looking at food we cannot easily find back home. We sit outside for longer. We talk more. We drive through little villages. We look at the mountains. We complain about France when something makes absolutely no sense, then laugh about it five minutes later.

France can be frustrating. I know that better than most.

But perhaps that is part of its charm.

This summer has also meant more to me because of my family.

I have properly reconnected with two of my sisters this year, something I am incredibly happy about. And I have spent time close to my parents again.

That part is becoming harder.

My dad will be 91 in September, and I can see him getting older quickly now. When you live away from your parents, you notice the changes more. You don't see the gradual ageing of everyday life. You come back months later and suddenly something is different.

He walks a little slower. He looks a little more fragile.

And somewhere in the back of my mind is the question I don't particularly want to think about.

How many more summers like this will we have?

Perhaps that is why leaving feels different as I get older.

At 52, summer is no longer just about sunshine, restaurants, beaches and having a good time. It is about time itself.

Time with my parents. Time with my sisters. Time with my wife and children. Time sitting around a table doing absolutely nothing important.

Those moments suddenly feel incredibly important.

I spent around twenty years of my life living around the Mediterranean before eventually moving to the English countryside, close to the Cotswolds. A week ago, we drove down to the Costa Brava and spent the day by the sea.

It was beautiful.

But something surprised me.

I realised I don't really miss that kind of Mediterranean summer anymore.

The crowded beaches. The traffic. The endless rows of restaurants and shops. The feeling that everyone is chasing the perfect summer holiday at exactly the same time.

It somehow felt too busy. Almost superficial.

Here in Ariège, everything feels different.

The Pyrénées dominate the landscape without asking for attention. You look up and they are simply there.

Life feels slower. More grounded.

I think that is what I will miss most.

Not one particular restaurant or place. Not even the weather.

I will miss the rhythm of our life here.

Tomorrow morning, the terrace will be empty. The bags will go back into the car. We will say goodbye to people we have seen almost every day for the last month, and the mountains will slowly disappear in the mirrors as we drive north.

Then normal life will begin again.

I know we are lucky. We have had another month together. We have made more memories. We have eaten too much, laughed a lot, travelled, argued occasionally, visited family and spent countless hours sitting outside doing very little.

Exactly as a family holiday should be.

But today I don't feel ready to leave.

So I am going to finish my coffee, eat my pain au chocolat and sit here for a little longer.

The packing can wait.

For a few more hours, this is still home.

Jerome