The heat hits me first. That familiar smell of humidity, lavender, and fresh grass hugging the hills.
Nostalgia is a funny thing and, try as I might (and I don’t really try) I cannot wipe the rosy-tint from my memories of summers in the south of France. Riding bikes near a lake, devising imaginary games with my sister, the lightness of my body in the swimming pool, podding peas for dinner, listening to swing music as mum cooked inside the caravan, the thunder of rain on the tent during a storm making our sleeping bags all the more inviting. Skin bathed in sun, hair full of sea salt, smiles that have stretched from toothless to braced to adult – it’s all held here. I could talk forever about the wonderful memories I have created in this place. Driving with my family from Calais through the country, stopping at various campsites, visiting landscapes that look like they have been plucked straight from a Scandinavian fairy tale (and, yes, listening intently to Harry Potter on tape – the only way to spend a 7 hour long drive).
I could go on, but you get it, I love this place.
The lazy haze of sun filled days smudges the horizon. It’s so warm that you feel like doing anything other than laying around reading books or listening to blues is just unnatural. That's something I can hop right on board with.
Dotted with real life charming fairytale villages, hills lined with vineyards, and with sunsets so brilliant it looks as though the sky has caught fire, how can you not love this place? I mean just look at it.
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