Beginnings

My first home in Provence, if home can be called a state of mind rather than a place of long residence, was a Bed & Breakfast-what the French call a Chamber d’Hôte - in an old windmill whose sails had long ceased turning, My blue-shuttered window looked south across vineyards & silver olive trees to the ruined town of Oppède-le-Vieux that clung half-way up the slopes of the Lubéron mountain. The peace was disturbed only by a few lazy flies, by the weekend baying of hunting dogs (it was autumn, when the primitive hunting spirit in all good Provençal men wakes up) & by the early-morning grinding of gears in my 70-year-old landlady’s ancient & venerable Citroën. It was weeks before I discovered that every morning at six Madame Bonnet had driven 15 kilometres to the next village to buy fresh croissants for my breakfast. “Because Mademoiselle is something of a connoisseur, hein? And the bread in our village is acceptable, but the croissants no,” Later I persuaded Madame Bonnet to trade the croissants for a handful of her muscat grapes & a few sun-ripened figs picked off the garden tree.