Standing at an old drain, built by the Romans, now filled with coins and long forgotten wishes, we were directed to a nearby model of the original Roman fortress, showing exactly where the drain would have been. I watched Claire’s eyes light up, reflecting my own, as history was made vital, dredged up and forced into contemporary relevance.
Provence
I sat in a poolside chair on terracotta tiles, the silver handles of the pool’s steps glinting into the pale blue water. Beyond the roof of the house, the tops of cedar trees were sparsely spread between thick flowering bushes, abuzz with stripy bumble bees. I heard only the noise of the cigalles in the garden, the strange chirping creatures that resemble a small piece of bark, and chirp strictly when the temperature reaches 25°C. I felt relaxed and content, inspired by my surroundings. The simplicity of the comfortable life I languished in for a week made me long for a piece of it myself. Although my desire to continue moving was still present, after the flurry of Paris, I felt incredibly relieved to be able to exhale.
We had arrived in Cabrieres d’Avignon the evening before and were kindly being put up for the week by friends of Iain’s mother, Rosie and Carlo. Rosie, who has lived mostly in London, between various travel adventures (such as an overland trip through Africa), relocated to France three years ago with Carlo, who considers himself South African despite Belgian origins. They have since become the ever-welcoming hosts, often offering the tranquillity of their home to their friends. A friend of Rosie’s, Mel, was staying there for the same week as us. Their house, named Voix des Cedres (Voice of the Cedars), was a sanctuary in which we could relax. Weary from having moved around every few days since the trip began, we now had no agenda, no expectations, and no must do obligations. It was bliss. Continue reading Provence>>
