Sometimes a landscape is so painterly that it can make up for a technical screw-up on the camera front.
I was initially horrified to see that I had accidentally enabled a cheap camera effect on the day we finally brought our boys to one of our favourite landscapes in Provence – the dizzying Route de Crêtes between Cassis and La Ciotat.
“This is just like the summers of my childhood,” a friend who was born in this region said the other day, lifting her face up to the sun.
Il faisait si chaud que le goudron fondait sous vos pieds [It used to be so hot that the tar was melting under your feet]. “ Continue reading
We had big plans for our long weekend in Corsica in May.
Driving, hiking, rugged mountains, deserted beaches, excellent food, fabulous wine – we were keen to try everything we’d heard about this island-mountain of the Mediterannean.
Fate had other ideas.
We used to be quite good at bartering.
In the markets and bazaars of South East Asia, Egypt and Turkey back in the day, things always went well if you took your time, showed respect and laughed a lot.
That was before Sabbatical Man and I had three lovely assistants: one small, one medium and one large.
Face down in the white, skis at odds, snowflakes up my left nostril, I practiced mindfulness and observed silence.
The silence of the mountains.
The silence of a metre of fresh snow.
The silence of The Instructor, a relentlessly positive man, finally lost for words.
Clarity came at last.
Skiing is suicide and I am not ready to die.