Provence I

We seem to have been blessed with an Indian Summer here in England, so it seems timely to get my holiday photos up before the feeling of sun on bare skin becomes just a memory.

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France, for ten days, September. A house in the hills of Provence. Blue skies, hot days. Breakfasting outdoors. Ripe peaches, buttery brioche, apricot jam. Snails, bleached white on stalks of grass, plant stems, the cyprus trees. A tea dance in the local village, the smell of candy floss on the air, the sound of an accordion. Olives groves and dry-earthed vineyards, grapes black and heavy. Lying in the sun for hours, reading, dozing, sticky with sunscreen. Lunches in the shade, gazpacho from the Moro cookbook, local goat's cheese, fresh baguette. The anticipated pool, leaking and drained. Sweat behind knees, between shoulder blades. The hose pipe, rainbows in the spray, and iced drinks, clinking, providing much relief. A trip to the coast, swimming in the sea, salt crystals on our skin for the rest of the day. Cassis (blackcurrant) sorbet in Cassis, seemed appropriate. Scorpions on whitewashed walls, or woven bathmats, near misses. A chartreuse striped, mustard spotted caterpillar resident on a fennel plant. In the long grass, one field down from the pool, sections of a discarded snakeskin, translucent, papery, pieced together, over five foot long. At night, in the trees above the outdoor table, an unidentified mammal, spotted by more than one of our group. Tiger striped spiders, and a wasps' nest discovered amongst the lavender stalks. I am fascinated by this all, and feel like I am twelve again, an aspiring Gerald Durrell, devouring My Family and Other Animals with a passion. Pétanque between the almond trees at dusk. Pigeons in fountains and sunflowers in buckets.

Another set of photos still to come...