Three nights in Provence
Outside the sky is a bruised, fast-moving grey and the wind is battering the garden. Through the kitchen window I watch the black and green of the elder tree thrashing and twisting. The hens are firmly in the henhouse. The wind whistles in the chimney and tugs at the doors. The old house hunkers down between the yew trees, its back to the shelter of the rock. In another world a few days ago the sky was this colour: There was a wind there too, the mistral blowing hard and cold from the North, but the colours were vivid and the light was strong. Hundreds of enthusiasts were re-enacting an assault on the castle at Les Baux. It was an extraordinary spectacle with horses and geese as well as soldiers and archers and peasants. In the audience were numbers of children also dressed in their chainmail or carrying their wooden swords. For a moment the lure of dressing up was strong and I would have loved to ride side saddle in medieval dress o...