As our days in Grimault wind down to an end, we relish each moment. We relish rising in the crisp morning, creaking open the door to our private Studio, and leaping out into the bitterly cold day. We relish that first morning glance from the driveway where we are perched, out across the valley where the little village nestles. In the last few days the remaining vestiges of Christmas snow melt, the river settles and clears into a dulcet turquoise, and the grey trees mask vividly green fields. We have a bit of rain, which brings with it remarkably warm weather and, in moments without wind, it is almost warm. We relish stepping over the threshold into the warmth of the kitchen, a motion that requires a visual and aural overload and readjustment to the sounds of mandolin and guitar and the perfect haze of golden fire-light on rich, heavy colors. We relish the first glass of coffee, and the decadent and yet seemingly necessary and fitting almond croissant. The blazing heat of the shower and crisp clothes, and then the day has begun in earnest. We relish the momentary silence as the house vacates for the morning rush to fetch newspapers from nearby Noyers. And then the tentative first strummings and bowings on cold instruments with cold fingers, the first hesitant strokes which grow into wild motions and whirling melodies, gypsy dances and sicilian lullabies, and each song is inevitably joined to by each of us until it runs its course and a new inspiration, bluegrass or celtic, is stumbled upon. The music flares till lunchtime, when from nowhere there appears a feast of stew and sausage and delice cheese and a fresh Banette baguette and fresh pears and heaps of other delights. We relish the frantic stumbling process by which four people, four plates, four sets of cutlery, overflowing glasses, two newspapers, two dogs, and various other miscellany are flocked out into the little tent perched on the patio. We draw the curtain of the tent tightly closed and soak up the heat within, the transparent walls allowing the weak midday sun to form a greenhouse effect. We dig into the feast (lunch is universally declared the best meal, and somehow each day brings the best one so far) and between mouthfuls we declare and state and refute whatever accusations or protestations fill the papers or otherwise our minds. We reach the funnies section of the newspaper right as we have dessert (pear sorbet, with creme de marron, without fail). Bloated by a well-earned-and-hard-worked-for lunch (we have to tell ourselves that at least) we collapse onto the chaise-lounge and read for an hour or more. We relish the slumbering nature of this after lunch daze, when one can snatch a few words of a good book in between naps while the fire crackles and Casey's lazy finger picking spills across the room. And then up and out the door and into the car to somewhere, and though the location (either a market or an art store or a museum or a cathedral) changes every day, the mission has certain universal elements. There is fast driving across empty fields on narrow roads, the Willie Nelson blaring mournfully from the stereo, the blasting warmth from the heaters combatted by cold air that rushes through the windows, and the gratitude with which the car rolls to a stop back at its home at 12 Rue D'enfer, and the dogs come galloping over. We relish the glass of champagne (every night within a month of christmas qualifies as celebratory here) that appears as dinner is created, the repeat of the lunchtime rush and a meal that promises to supplant lunch as the greatest meal ever. Music plays in the kitchen, and another cup of coffee warms dessert-laden stomachs as we transfer back to our various homes in front of the fireplace to read, to call home, play music, or collect thoughts and things for our imminent onward travel. We relish the late bought of music that arrives dragging along the dregs of remaining energy into a bright footstomping tune and then an exhaustion-laden lullaby. We relish the quick rush across the cold driveway to our studio, the cold and heavy cloth of cotton night-gowns, the warmth of a small, well-heated room, and the satisfaction of heavy blankets. In the darkness we talk briefly, then turn on a lullaby, maybe Schubert of Bach or Bocherrinni, to lull us to sleep, before doing it again. As we fall asleep we feel full. Full not only of great food, but of great warmth, great satisfaction, comfort, and a sense of home. Full of hope and energy for the future, and delicately balanced love for the past. Full of camaraderie and full of music. Full.