Slumbering, mouth open, gently drooling in the first of our hot, hot days, I awoke with a start at the sound of a car turning into the drive.

Peering from the outdoor table, I saw they'd stopped in the French manner; just nudged off the road, but not intruding really beyond the entrance to the property.

As I stood, face prepared to sadly tell the Jehovah's Witnesses that much as I admired them I was a Catholic; an obviously British woman tentatively emerged. (There's just something in the walk; the outline; the clothes; even the haircut. Always, lucky them, the haircut.)

However, I addressed her in French and was slightly bemused to hear her say: 'I understand you're a journalist and can perhaps give us some help.'

Walk this way, my dear, I thought, hoping for - perhaps - the mother of all stories that would earn me enough to pay for a paint job on the shutters.

For a second, a new kitchen, maybe a shower room, flashed across my eyes.

Alas, no. She and her husband, who - sensing all was well, got out of the car - had been to see a house nearby, and the Dutch estate agent, whom I know, suggested they speak to me.

God knows why he did that because the last time we met I was hardly upbeat or filled with love for my surroundings.

Anyway, delighted for any change in the day I made them coffee and prepared to talk.

Both retired from extremely interesting work; they had spent the past 10 years idly looking at houses when spending time in France.

They'd ranged all around but this visit they felt they'd found the, if not perfect, then right, holiday house. I didn't know the house by name but when described, I did.

It has one of the most magnificent views in the region; high and looking down over the Gers. I doubt one would ever tire of watching the seasons change.

They vaguely knew Moissac but had no knowledge of any of the delights of the other towns and villages. Had never heard of what I now, God love me, think of as our cultural hot spots.

A part of me was astonished that they were prepared to spend cash on a house in an area they hadn't a clue about. And then I realised I'd done exactly the same, except, unlike them, I'd thrashed all bridges behind me.

So, I started to talk. It didn't take long for me to grasp that I was being startlingly negative - you've heard it all over the years.

I watched dismay flit across their features and I changed my narrative not to trample on their joyful possibilities. Actually, that's not quite true - in trying to explain the downsides, I was finding it hard to prove my point suddenly.

I no longer believed what I was saying.

A year ago this month, if they had turned up here they would have found a sad, troubled woman watching her beloved companion, Portia, dying day by day.

A woman who found joy only fleetingly, burdened by a bad few health years; who crouched over a computer, chain smoking even as she struggled to breathe at times as a result.

A woman who, frankly, like many others, was seeing life as an inevitable slide into a miserable end.

That day - now - although they didn't know it, they found the me I used to be on my arrival here. Energy has returned and I move around the house with purpose and pleasure. I no longer drag my feet and seek excuses not to participate in life or get on a plane to see my only child.

The excuses were made because my smoking had brought me to such a pass everything was a nightmare effort I would admit to no one, especially to myself.

I will now be six weeks 'clean' when you read this. I'm not going to evangelicalise. We all, quite rightly, make our choices.

The other reason for my new found joie de vivre peered through his fencing as I switched tack with the couple and focused on the positives of life here.

Cesar has, literally, dragged me back into life. Taken me again to the markets, the festivals, and the pavement cafes as his trainer socialises him, and indeed me, again.

He is a reason to get up; to walk and feel my muscles returning to their purpose; someone, like Portia once was, to think of other than myself.

As Portia was my companion, as the French always called her, before we both got crocked through broken or displaced limbs, so he will be.

In time, please God, he'll be civilised enough that we can head off to the sea I love so much and spend time on beaches, welcomed in small hotels after a long day out.

He'll be my excuse, as she was, to visit new places; the pair of us seeking excitement. Me to keep him amused. Him, although he'll never know it, to keep me curious and living well.

The couple emailed me on their return to England. One wants the house. One isn't sure.

Ah, it's so much easier just having a dog.