Last weekend, in the quiet of an autumn afternoon, my husband and I went for a drive into the mountains, searching for our own private Provencal home. The rain was light and drizzled, as if not rain at all but condensation hung in the air, tiny transparent pearls of water. Just enough to moisten your skin were you to venture outside.
We had been entertaining the idea of moving to the country for some time when we stumbled across an advertisement for a beautiful, hand-built stone house. The pictures made it look like it was taken straight out of an Enid Blyton fairytale; it was dusk, and the lit windows made it feel warm and homely, a safe haven from the dark forest outside. In person, it lived up to our expectations. The property was in the middle of Watagan Forest, the only entry via a narrow mountain road, curving in and out of the treescape. It was built on acres of land – so well outside of our price range – but it made for a pretty Sunday drive.
It was also the moment we realised how much we are “mountain people” — and how much we craved to be back in Provence.
What I remember most about Provence was the thin, crisp mountain air, like the cool comfort which slivers of after-dinner mints bring to a heavy belly. The sun on my shoulders that warmed but never burned. The way each and every home looked as inviting as my own, regardless of how aged or weathered the stone exterior. The sense of open space and freedom one doesn’t find within the city limits. The simple pleasures. Fields of lavender, lakes to swim in, friendly locals.
