Olives. Tis the season of such. The branches are loaded. Soon to be liquid gold.
Our new found friends, Teresa and Dave are head over heels in love with Provence.
What is there not to love? Maybe the anchovies? Or the Mistral?
We drove along the countryside, they are photographers, which means they too like stopping in the middle of the road, or jumping out of the car in a flash to capture a play of light across the landscape.
Provence does not look like Paris, nor Alsace, or Normandy, nor does it look or taste like Oklahoma. Teresa and Dave are from Oklahoma... Provence casts a spell on anyone who loves the countryside, olives, lavender, goat cheese, the blue sea... and can dream of a land without tornadoes. Oh the simple life of kicking back with a pastis.
September in Provence: The dry rocky soil gives birth to grapes and olives.
Blue shutters against orange facades.
The cicadas stop singing and the Mistral brings blue skies.
Oh la la Provence lures. Teresa and Dave might not leave.
I can hear the banjo on his knee playing a new tune.