I have just finished to reread Manon des Sources, by the wonderful french writer Marcel Pagnol. I was brought back in a world of colours, scents, heat, the world of sun and red wine and pastis, the world of strong mistral and warm breezes caressing the skin, the world of rides through the Camargue on a small white horse without saddle, the world where nightingales sang you through the nights, Daudet’s world of “La bibliothèque aux cigales” or “La chèvre de Monsieur Seguin”, the world of the ‘Santons de Provence’, of a most beautiful language.
I love the Provence, have visited it many many times……….
Walking my dog along the road, I felt a longing for these places emerging in my memory and, on this very grey, very misty, very wet ‘hebridean’ day, I almost desperately tried to find something lovely in that very present moment, where I happen to live now.
A flock of gulls soared above me towards the sea leaving me savouring the beautiful, almost majestic flight in complete silence.
And then I looked at the few whitish grey houses sitting quietly, silent, on the rugged shore and a wave of tenderness for this place overcame me. One can do nothing against falling in love with the ‘wrong’ place…..