Saturday June 26th

Day 68

This morning we say goodbye to our hideaway mountain retreat and its pungent scent of wild oregano and hot feeding bees. All day the sun blazes on the car as we drive past slow rivers, vineyards and poppy splattered fields of wheat, stopping for a kilo of cherries at a roadside fruit stall.

in Uzes, our lunch destination, the Saturday market snakes through side streets, spills over pavements and clots the central arched square like a retail carnival. I feel panicky with greed as we wander through the stalls, juicy with produce - jars of chestnut honey, piled trays of apricots and peaches, giant skillets of steaming paella, bundles of sunflowers and fresh lavender and bright wide bowls of spices, olives and almonds. I long to fill my already bulging suit case with all things Provencal as if nothing else will do.

By chance, and a delight, we meet one of our writing companions also on her way to Avignon. We share a long lunch in a cafe, deep in the market square, sitting at a corner table shaded by a pink flowering oleander, while the traders dismantle their stalls with deafening clangs all around us.

Much much later, I open the fridge at home and find two giant bowls filed to the brim with allotment strawberries - picked by our dear house-sitter. As I dip into the cold red mountain, again and again, the end of the holiday sadness melts away, along with all things Provencal, and I can leave unpacking till tomorrow.