There is a huge olive tree in my father's vineyard. So huge, in fact, that we called someone to assess its age. The results are back, and you are not going to believe them: our olive tree is at least 1,200 years old. Yep, that's 12 centuries!
I wish it could talk and tell us what happened to the abandoned hamlet up the road. Or maybe, in this remote part of Provence, things have not changed that much in over 10 centuries. That's why the olive tree could reach such an old age: things will never change at all over here.
After all, we are spending most of our days picking up chestnuts and stuffing our faces with Sharon fruits.
This is how I used to spend my days as a kid. My day, grandad and great grandad have done the same before me. Is it possible that, in Provence, things are frozen in time? I wonder.
Our vineyard is surrounded by British people who have built lovely villas. Surely this wasn't the case before. That said, you can't hear them at all. In fact, the only thing we can hear is the wind in the trees. But I am pretty sure that they can hear our aggressive roster in the morning. It is pretty common to have a roster and some hens to have fresh eggs. We are no exception. I hope they don't mind.
So here I am, feeling that I am travelling back in time. Don't get me wrong, it is nice. But don't repeat it: I am starting to miss London.