Provence
The canicule broke yesterday, heralding the end of high summer. Wild figs and mulberries litter the path, filling the air with their scent which, combined with lavender, rosemary and thyme, is the smell of Provence. Even though we’ve had more rain than previous years and fewer weeks of extreme heat, we’re relieved – especially those of us with no pool in which to cool off.
When the temperature rises above 35°C, actions become clumsy and the mind dulls. Even here in the relative chill of the cave, with the shutters and windows closed, it can be insufferable. Small chores become mammoth tasks, work piles up and the fridge sits empty. Hours of the afternoon are spent lying on the bed under the ceiling fan.
Professor Brian Cox and his family and a couple of their friends climbed the steep cliff path in 36°C to visit the other day. The first thing Brian did was stick his head under the cold tap in the kitchen: ‘We’ll need to get you air con for Christmas.’ His wife told me that while they were out for dinner the previous evening, a dove fell dead from a roof and landed in the fountain beside them.
Perhaps because northern Europe has been warmer this season, I’ve had fewer people renting my little cave apartment next door. The guests are usually French, Dutch, German or English: earnest young couples who sit in the shade reading their paperbacks or visit the Gorge du Verdon and swim in the Lac de Sainte Croix. This year the demographic has been older – last week an art historian and his wife from Brighton, and then Martin, 68, from Allentown in Pennsylvania. I leave tea, organic coffee, a decent bottle of local rosé, olive oil from a friend’s farm, Dijon mustard, cider vinegar and garlic for the renters. Occasionally I’ll buy them fresh croissants in the morning. This is done not out of concern for ratings but because I do the changeovers myself and hope that if
I make an effort they’ll at least clean the lavatory before they leave.
While I was showing Martin into the cave apartment, he told me some of his story. Following a hardworking and modest life he’d become wealthy suddenly, after the death of his mother. He’d traded her stagnant old shares for Amazon and Bitcoin and made a fortune. He wants to see the world and travels half the year, but his wife dislikes flying and refuses to accompany him. Behind the round steel-rimmed glasses, his eyes crumpled slightly. ‘I wish she’d have come, she’d love it here.’ And, after a pause: ‘Have you been affected by the fires?’ ‘No, nothing closer than 25 miles for years.’
I showed him the Bialetti stove-top coffee maker. Pulling a face again, he said: ‘Looks a bit European…’ I set it up for him. ‘Does it whistle like an English teapot when it’s ready?’ ‘A kettle you mean? No. You just have to pay attention; listen for it bubbling up then going silent.’ Martin the cat wandered in. I introduced the feline and human namesakes to one another. Turning to my guest, I said: ‘If you hear me shouting “Fuck off, Martin!”…’ He interjected: ‘Don’t worry, I won’t take it personally.’
When the temperature rises above 35°C actions become clumsy and the mind dulls
I told him about the evening recently when I’d sat down on the balcony terrace with a gin and tonic, ready to light the first of the two cigarettes I’d promised myself that evening, and saw Martin chasing something at my feet. Before I could stop him, he’d caught a baby gecko in his mouth. I screamed at him to let the creature go, which he did, but not before he’d bitten off and swallowed its head. The headless body, with its exposed spinal cord, fell under the table and continued to squirm and twitch all the time it took me to find a dustpan and brush. It was still flipping about and wriggling as I threw it over the wall. That glorious moment; the sip of cold gin, the click or two of a lighter, followed by the redemptive puff of nicotine, was ruined by nausea and invasive thoughts of Robespierre and the Reign of Terror.
‘And how come you, with your Scottish accent, landed here in this beautiful village in the south of France – living alone in a cave with only a murderous cat you don’t like for company?’
Sometimes when people ask me this I go into Glaswegian stand-up mode and deliver a tragicomic routine lasting between three and five minutes. To spare myself as much as my American guest, I said: ‘Well, I suppose I’m here because I love the smell of wild figs and hate being cold. And the cat’s OK when he’s not killing stuff.’
The following day I received a photo Brian’s wife had taken a minute before as they were driving along nearby. ‘Do you know where this is?’
A huge dark plume was rising from a hill a few miles away as the crow flies. ‘Pontevès perhaps?’ I said before heading outside to check the wind direction. Three firefighting helicopters and two Canadair flew low overhead towards the rapidly increasing mass of smoke.
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