Following the summer months almost totally spent abroad, how I looked forward to spending September in my haven in the south of France … my only commitments being two recitals at two weeks interval and in benefit of local churches in need of restoration:
St. Georges-Montagne  is one of three roman churches in the area in need of attention: my recital would be the very first one in that slightly austere venue, a few kilometers from where my good friend F. Querre lives  he of Les Grandes Heures de St Émilion, the festival already famous among artists who are also wine lovers. Unbeknown to me the promoter, who is very keen to get involved in that main Festival, had asked François to introduce the program to the audience. As usual it was done to perfection in his inimitable style , so much so that hearing it from the vestry-cum-backstage I couldn’t refrain from wondering whether I would possibly do justice to such flourish. Ta-ta: it was up to me to deliver! I had built a first half of ‘growing numbers’: 2 Impromptus (Schubert), 3 Intermezzi (Brahms) and 4 Études (Chopin); then  markedly contrasting music Ravel’s jewel of a Sonatine and Rachmaninov’s all encompassing 2nd Sonata in the second half worked wonders: cool elegance x total passion! After the dedicated list of encores, a few of us were invited to the promoter’s house, where a few surprises were in store: in lieu of a Sauternes to crown the foie gras to perfection Mr Boidron served a very special vin blanc of his own creation, Mayne d’Olivet; later when Querre gently pressed him over the undetected delicious blend of cépages, it remained a mystery, oh, so subtly well-kept; and why not?! We then went through a selection of his very best rouges until one last twist: alongside the platter of cheeses, he proudly proceeded to open a bottle of a famous 20 yr-old Port to ‘’soothe’’ the included “Stilton”-- no doubt aware that I had chosen to live in London -- a touching thought. “Merci infiniment, Jean-Noël”!

L’Église de Saint Pierre is situated in the small village I call my own, where for many years my family and I come over for vacations. From the moment I recently entered this charming local chapel I “saw” it as a perfect concert venue and duly offered to play what turned out as the first ever classical music recital in the village. It was planned so that profits would go towards the reparation of its quite unique frescoes painted, in mid XIX century, on the medallion-shaped wooden ceiling. Despite the fact that the rented Yamaha was only a baby-grand to keep down expenses, the acoustics were a revelation and following a thorough distribution of flyers and posters and a couple of local press interviews the church was filled; present also were the mayors from three of the surrounding villages: that alone, a local success!
This time dinner was at our place. To my rescue I had the help of wonderful Fernanda flown in from Lisbon -- she of the “Les Amis” two summers back – who produced a great dinner. With a little help from friends -- Valérie de R. made a couple of delicious tarts of tomatoes and figs; Victoria provided some of her own vegetables and my husband’s invaluable coolness at setting some 35 dinner-places aided by Janice* , who had arrived from Paris for the occasion -- we got our act together: September 22nd will remain a very special memory. The organization of the event was in the hands of Mme Caffy, local historian and painter in her spare time, who artistically devised the beautiful flyers and posters, the atmospheric lighting in the venue, the comprehensive cocktail … which reminds me:  “Françoise, two corrections for next time: the piano must be a concert-grand, if only to do justice to both artist and venue but also… the food must not be heated until after the music ends, no comments… But bravo, you came up trumps: next time it will only get easier”!

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Time to get back to London in order to prepare for my 1st visit to Beijing; the invitation had come through T. Ungar, of the TCU’s Institute of Piano, in Ft Worth, Texas who had tried to make that work for a couple of years. After a long exchange of emails, it surfaced that I needed to go myself to get a visa of entry from the Chinese Embassy: I’m always terrified that something will be wrong and that I’d be refused it…  Underlying deeply in me was an unfounded fear of that massive red-country. What would I find? How do people repressed for so long behave?

*Janice, Brazilian friend and painter (v. October 2007)