Voluptuous is the word for France in mid-summer. The vegetation spills generously, luxuriously, langorously over the countryside. It’s full of curves and twirls and flourishes. It smells good. It tastes good. 
I had something else ready to post today but changed my mind during my morning walk. This couldn’t wait. In fact, there are so many things to share, I will have to split them into a few posts. Come along; I’ll give you the pictures and play by play. If only I could also transmit the sounds and smells and flavors.
I set out on a long walk before the sun rose to a point that makes physical exertion a bad idea. However, it took longer than planned because of repeated stops to pick fat, juicy blackberries and succulent figs growing wild. A generous breakfast. 
It’s a bit early for the fruit. Usually they hit their peak in mid-to-late August. Some of the figs are still small and hard, promises of sweet tomorrows.
The grapes aren’t for picking. They aren’t growing wild, after all. I pass the vineyards of the ancient vigneron, who was bent in half but who kept working and who died about a year ago. His son now has all the work to do and is no spring chicken himself. He sells his wine to a cooperative, where quantity counts more than quality. Most of the small vineyards have switched methods, pruning back grape clusters to concentrate the flavor, favoring smaller but better production. The ancient vigneron’s son seems content to stick to the old ways. His vines sprawl and are laden with grapes.
Even some wild cacti are bursting with fruit. The cacti seem to have migrated across the road from the garden of a retiree who cultivates many varieties of them. The ground here is clay and gets hard and hostile in the summer drought, but those plants that manage to take root also manage to thrive.
Red seems to be the color of the moment. Red berries everywhere. Not always edible. At least not for humans. The birds enjoy them in their many varieties.
I stop to admire the solar farm. Do you see it?
I see it because I know where to look, and I only learned about it last summer; before I looked at that view and had no idea a solar farm was there. (Hint: it’s just left of the right electricity pole. It looks as if the hill is sloping to the left, but in fact, it’s straight and the gray part is solar panels.)
Can you see it now? It doesn’t mar the view as much as I had expected.
A tiny snake crosses my path. Much better than a big snake.
A field, once a vineyard but now fallow, is dotted with wildflowers.
A mysterious gate to nowhere.
A lady filling a couple of bags with sand. For her houseplants, I suppose. It seems like a hard way to get sand. On the other hand, I admire it. Why drive 10 miles to town to buy a sand in sealed plastic bag when you can walk out and shovel up what you need for free?
The well-used barbecue of the boulodrome. Thursdays are pétanque night, and when the wind blows the right way at our house we hear the announcements of the winners, delivered with richly rolled R’s and an extra “ah” syllable at the end, typical of the regional accent. We also smell the sausages grilling. Every activity in France is accompanied by food. Even my gym class would eat gâteau du roi (king cake) and drink (alcoholic) cider around Jan. 6. Priorities: breaking bread beats burning calories.
Perhaps a picnic in the garrigue this weekend. How about you?
Among the excellent wineries in the Minervois region, the 
The owner, Graham Nutter, left a career in finance in London in 2001 to buy the property and meticulously restore both the buildings and the vineyards. He switched production from quantity-driven for the local cooperative to high-quality organic techniques.
Wine bottles have two dominant shapes: high shoulders indicate wines from Bordeaux or other wines that resemble the Bordeaux sensibility vs. sloping shoulders for wines from Burgundy and similar wines. Château St. Jacques d’Albas is one of the few wineries in Minervois to use bottles with sloping shoulders.
However, whereas Burgundy wines are of a single variety–pinot noir–in order to carry the Minervois AOC (appellation d’origine contrôlée) wines must be a 
Château St. Jacques d’Albas also holds jazz and classical 
It’s the time of year when the vignerons, or winegrowers trim their vines. On the lovely, sunny days, I’m jealous of them, out in the fresh air. On the cold, gray days, with piercing rains and howling winds, they’re out, working, and I feel guilty that they have to go through so much so I can have a glass of wine at dinner.
To trim, or tailler, the vines requires a kind of zen patience. The vineyards are so vast. Row after row of gnarled stalks, called pieds, or feet, extend to the horizon. The poor winegrowers start in one corner and work their way slowly across.
Everything about wine takes time. Whether it’s trimming the vines, waiting for the wine to ferment to be bottled, waiting again for It to age or tending the vineyards for decades for them to produce truly excellent wine. Just look at these pieds. They have seen generations.
The vines must suffer to produce good fruit. Poor soil. Rocks. Not enough water. They send roots down, down, to find what they need. It isn’t so different from a child who has everything he wants and, while probably a really nice, sweet kid, doesn’t have the kind of character that comes from having to make hard choices or not getting everything he wants. The hardship makes success so much sweeter.
Taste of France 