Home again

I love living in the south of France. I love the climate, the beauty of the countryside, the proximity to the Mediterranean, the food, the wine and I could go on and on and on.

So, as usual, I was thrilled to be at home for a few days. Every so often, in February, we get several days of spring. The air is warm, the sky is almost impossibly blue, the scorching days of summer seem to be just around the corner

After the cold and grey skies of Paris and Amsterdam, it was lovely to be out in the warm air and to look up at a clear blue sky. I put the dogs on their leads and headed off into the garrigue. The garrigue is the name for the vegetation that grows on the limestone soils of southern France. It is a mixture of herbs: rosemary; thyme; sage, fennel and lavender. Flowers, particularly cistus or rock roses but also broom and various types of orchids, grow everywhere. There are juniper bushes and wild asparagus and almond trees as well as holm oaks and Mediterranean pines. It is alive with bees and, in the summer, the raucous chant of cicadas. On the ground, tracks give clues to the presence of larger fauna, wild boar, deer. The many gnawed pine cones proof of a healthy red squirrel population. There are pine martens and big green lizards. Occasionally you see the beautiful golden Montpellier grass snake ( couleuvre de Montpellier) sliding away to hide in the long grasses.

I headed out of the village, past the sun drenched stone walls, past the vibrant mimosa trees swaying gently in the village gardens, up the lanes between the vineyards and beyond , climbing now, up narrow tracks into the garrigue.

All around me were the signs of spring, almond trees bursting into bloom, Rosemary in flower, broom and even in sheltered nooks the delicate pink tissue paper flowers of the rock roses.

The garrigue was literally buzzing. Bees were making the most of the weather, visiting each newly opened flower.

I ambled along the scented paths. Stopping to crush rosemary in my hand and breathe in its perfume.

I scrambled down the rocky paths, back into the vineyards carpeted with the white flowers of false rocket, the still dormant vines patiently waiting their turn.

It felt like spring was here. I knew, however, this was only a temporary reprieve from winter, that next week the bitter tramontane wind could once again roar down the valley and black clouds could bring pouring rain. Local lore ominously warns of the passage of the Ice Saints, Mamert, Servais and Pancrace, who can conjure frosts that decimate the fruit orchards and vineyards as late as May.

But, today, the promise of spring had been made, that promise would be kept. I walked back to the village with a lightened heart and a spring in my step. It was good to be home.

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