The south of France is anything but a hardship post. As winters go, they’re the green pistes, compared with the black ones elsewhere. In fact, spring started sprouting more than a week ago. (The mimosas are exploding, as in the top photo.)The days are getting longer and milder. The air smells doux, in all the French senses of the word: sweet, soft, mild, gentle… It’s intoxicating, making you want to fill your lungs again and again. It’s been mild enough that we can open the windows and let the perfume in the house (in addition to the daily airing that all good French people perform every morning, kind of the opposite of hygge). Snow is an hour away, if we want it, in abundance.
The bees are buzzing, the butterlies are fluttering. The weeds are invading.
The majestic plane trees are still bare. They look like tortured sculptures, though the trunks of some remind me of the trunks of elephants.
The trees in the woods don’t yet have leaves, but greenery persists throughout winter here.The river is robust, neither threatening nor dry. The baby grass is so tender. I just wanted to stay and stroke it (I did partake for a few minutes, but resisted the urge to take off my shoes and feel it between my toes, too).Secret worlds come to life.
Please check out Daily Plate of Crazy, who also has musings today on midwinter madness.