“La neige!” she exclaims coming through my front door with her 20-something daughter laughing beside her. Indeed, welcome to Dublin in late spring.

I didn’t know her at all. I had met her daughter at dinner in a friend’s house in London. A student in the capital, she was opinionated in a giving way, enjoying counter-views and the lively discussion that would follow, without taking offence or being defensive, and laughing frequently.

“I am coming to Dublin with my mother next month,” she said. “But we can’t find anywhere to stay.”

And here they were. I had given them my bedroom and took to a single bed surrounded by piles of clothes and papers, displaced to make my visitors’ living quarters minimalist, creating empty drawers for their belongings.

I was minorly unsettled and wondering how these strangers and I would all get through these next three and a half days. With any luck they would be out a lot and, with me out at work in the evenings, we would not cross paths often.

I was right. They were going to hurtle around Ireland: day one in Dublin; day two, a coach trip to Co Clare centring on the Cliffs of Moher; day three to Kinsale. "We were told it's beautiful," said the younger. "It's quite a trip there and back in a day," I said, needlessly. They went anyway.

I’m living in my home differently, giving them their space. On their final morning I sit in the living room, away from my permanent kitchen spot beneath a skylight, to allow them to have breakfast in peace. It’s all white bread and high-sugar-content jam – French tradition beating restrictive fad diets that fear carbohydrates, gluten and refined flour – and the pair of them energetic, thin and glowing.

Maman walks past me to the front door to have a cigarette on the street. No need, I indicate, she can smoke in the back yard. After polite protest both ways, I guide her out to the potted plants.

And soon we three are deep. They have had a tragedy: a son, a brother. We offer views and share the experiences of ourselves and others. We talk of loss. Relationships past, too.

“Dans la poubelle,” was Maman’s prescription for moving on from broken love. I asked her daughter if there was any room for recycling, which she relayed to Maman. Her face lights as she draws on her cigarette, reminding me of a Claire Bretécher cartoon character, and, breathing out the smoke, says forcefully: “Pas de recyclage,” and we all laugh. “La paix,” she says, describing her life living alone since her ex hit the bin. We are all rushing to speak and listen, lost in the conversation.

Then Maman indicates the magnolia tree growing in a pot in my back yard, it’s rich, long purple petals defying the gloomy sky, and indicates that it should be at the front of the house.

I’m getting her meaning despite her daughter having often told her I don’t speak French. Maman has more faith in my linguistic ability and does not like conversational flow to be punctuated by translation. I’m not sure if she is slowing and simplifying the language for my sake or whether I’m just picking up the words I know or the ones that have meaning for me. She is using body language too.

She is miming people walking along the street and their faces brightening as they see the flowering tree. “La coeur,” she says, cupping her hands beneath her heart and lifting them.

“Mais des voleurs,” I say, digging thieves out of my restricted vocabulary. My home is hard on the pavement, even though I’m sure magnolia trees aren’t great currency on the black market. But she insists, and her lifted hearts are beating my robbers, until I’m okay with the fact that I may lose the tree and the payoff of happy passers-by will make it worth it.

So our final act, before they leave, is for the three of us to carry the substantial plant through the house and out the front. There, Maman indicates, perfect. She is right. And I’ve also let my fears go.

“Thank-you for the philosophy,” says the daughter as we kiss on leaving. “No, thank YOU,” I say trying to indicate that it worked the other way. Philosophy is probably too strong a word; our chat upgraded in translation: but while it may not be the stuff of de Beauvoir or Sartre, it worked for us – we shared something.

With that they take their cases and wheel off up the road. “La vie est belle,” shouts Maman, down a Dublin city street that surely rarely hears those words. It maybe something of a common phrase but I think Maman had sussed that life lessons in French had to be served to me in clear and neat – meaty nonetheless – chunks.