Ok, stop first at Hélèn’s.
Push through the woollen fly-screen and step over the cat sleeping on the flagstones. Check out the board – our suggestions. Coffee, tea. A simple choice.
Hélèn’s out back washing the crockery, she’ll be back by the time you’ve chosen, so sit down in the corner.
Nod and say hello to the men sitting around the cake, reading newspapers and discussing the world outside. Here nothing troubles them.
Not the swirls of red paint on the floor, the artwork hanging on the wall, the scratches on the gilt mirror, nor the fact that the coffee is luke-warm.
Drive on.
Through the heat.
Up over the high pass and down into the valley where the sheep roam amongst the scorched grass and dying trees.
Keep going, further down into the valley through a series of switch backs, through the medieval village where the circus waits, too hot for the acrobats to tumble and on and on past umbrella pines suffering less than the oaks.
Vines. They are happy.
Then the city.
A Roman arena. Centre.
There’s a concert tonight, thousands will come.
And sing. And dance.
In the morning, leave early. The sea awaits.
Swim.
Or think about it, at least.
Then meet, greet, eat.
At the corner bistro, ‘till the night falls and dreams call.
Rise slowly, head back to the sea and swim this time.
Swim again.
Watch the wind play havoc with the things on the beach.
Papers, bags, beach toys.
Rolling.
Chased.
Escaped.
In town a house on stilts. A house that is a village. A street of shops within.
A roof top mimicking an ocean liner.
Another sleep. Another day.
An old town.
Listen to the insects.
Look at the photos.
Cigale and beatle.
Now.
And then.
Black and white.
Colour.
Summer starts.
A walk around Vincent’s painting next.
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