I’ve had a complicated relationship with water most of my life. My parents tried to give us opportunities to learn to swim as best they could, but in my family, half were swimmers and half were not. For the most part, I didn’t see this as having a major impact on my life. We spent little time in or near water, so it didn’t really matter.

When I met Jason, we were young and broke, and vacations abroad weren’t possible. But over time, winter began to feel unbearable to me, and we were able to afford a few trips to hot destinations. And Jason loves the ocean. He wanted nothing more than to spend all day diving down to discover what beautiful creatures he could find. Watching him move in the water with such ease was amazing. He introduced me to this magical underwater world, and the first time I saw a fish, my idea of the ocean changed. But the first time I saw a turtle, I was in love. I was still scared to death of the water, but the turtles made me want to figure it out.

Years of swim lessons and multiple trips to the ocean later, I was only marginally less afraid. I still wanted to wear something to keep me afloat, and the deep water really frightened me. But slowly, I started to push myself and felt a little less apprehensive.

But last year, I was committed to getting past it, so I could dive down like Jason and look into the eyes of a turtle, not just from above. I knew the only way to get there was to commit more time and energy. And have a water guru.

I had met Paty in Cozumel a few years back on a snorkel trip, and on a particularly rough day out, she kept me calm in the water. From that moment on, I knew she understood me, and she would be the perfect mentor. I asked her if she’d be willing to do some private lessons, to get me comfortable in deep water, and to teach me the basics of diving from the surface. I knew this wouldn’t be a quick fix, so I booked three weeks in Mexico and many, many hours with Paty. Day after day, hour after hour, I was in the ocean, slowly improving. My breakthrough happened when I was trying to dive below the surface and just kept bobbing back up. I had a weight belt, yet still I couldn’t get down. I finally realized just how buoyant I was in the water. Once my brain truly understood this, it all became much less frightening.

It took hundreds of attempts before I finally figured out the physics of getting down, but my body now understands the mechanics of it. Still, I struggled, so I decided to spend even more time in Mexico, this time getting additional lessons with a certified freediving instructor.  

Aurelio is a freediving master. I had originally booked a class, but he had to cancel at the last minute. He had organized a freediving competition on the island and promised to take some of the competitors out for a fun shipwreck dive. He invited me along. I mean, I’ve never met the man, and these people were way above my pay grade. But I really wanted to go. He asked me if I was a strong swimmer. Now that was a complicated question. So, I answered with a vague, “Well, I am comfortable in a strong current with my snorkel and fins”, and he said, “Great, see you tomorrow!”

I had no idea what I was in for, but I was excited and panicked all at the same time. These people were pros, and I can barely function in the water. The next morning, I met Aurelio and the others. They had all the gear, and I showed up with some nice fins, but everything else I had with me screamed I had no idea what I was doing. We set off swimming along the shore north against the current, then turned out toward the shipwreck and let it take us there. The current on the north end of the island is notoriously strong, and it was no joke. When we arrived at the first shipwreck, Aurelio went down and secured the buoy to the wreck. Everyone took turns diving, while someone was always watching to ensure they were OK. The current was so intense that it was hard work just holding on to the buoy. It was amazing to watch these divers and to just be in the water with them. I took a few attempts down the line, but I didn’t want to hold them up or ruin their fun day out. After several dives (by the others), finally, we turned back and had to swim like crazy against the current to get back. It ended up being an incredible workout and an honour to be invited out with this group.

A few days later, I met Aurelio at the pool, and we began with breath-hold work, safety drills, and finally some attempts at swimming the length of the pool on one breath. It was more intense than I imagined and super informative. He, like Paty, kept telling me that it’s my head holding me back, not my ability. My goal is not to become a competitive freediver, simply to increase my confidence and skills in the water.  

And now that I am back, I am missing my daily outings in the ocean, the gorgeous sunshine, the colours, and the people of Mexico, and I wish I could magically find an excuse to go back this very minute. When I think about this personal transformation, I feel so grateful for having a completely different world opened up to me. It’s a reminder that it’s never too late to learn something. Curiosity is what keeps our minds sharp and our bodies moving. The ocean has become a place where I feel joy and peace. I now love the movement of the water, the feeling of floating. But I’m far from done learning. I feel like this is just the beginning, and I can’t wait for what’s next.

I don’t have a sweet tooth. I’d rather have cheese than dessert; anything savoury is my go-to. But I do enjoy baking and cooking, and I love bread. Good bread. Quality bread.

Excellent bread is abundant in France. I have my favourite boulangeries that make dense, multi-grain, whole-grain sourdough loaves. Some have nuts and fruit, some are plain. All are delicious, hearty, and chewy. And not made with yeast, only levain, a sourdough starter.

So I was surprised to hear that my friend Sarah, who lives in Provence, makes her own bread. I mean, why bother when there are so many great options at your fingertips? But now, I am eternally grateful for her sharing her gorgeous, healthy starter with me.

I brought back both dry and fresh starters to Canada. The dried starter came back beautifully within a couple of days, so now I am delighted to have an option for storing it if I can’t continue to take care of an active starter. 

There are very few bakers in my area who make a true sourdough loaf. Many use some sourdough but add yeast for a quick rise. This bread is always less substantial and is way too fluffy for my liking. One bakery makes its sourdough with an outrageously tough crust and huge holes. I cut the roof of my mouth every time, and it’s more crust than anything else. No thank you. 

So I thought it was time to make a proper loaf, not just the focaccia I was honing. I was looking for quality bread flour and thought there must be some great local mills, as we grow plenty of wheat in Canada. Lo and behold, there are lots! I’ve loaded up on rye, red fife, and high-protein bread flour and have been trying several different approaches: hand-kneaded, no-knead, machine-kneaded, as I continue the journey of perfecting my loaf. I’m having a blast in the process, learning, and experimenting.

I was never good at science as a student, nor all that interested in it. I was into art, theatre, languages, all the fun subjects. But, as I’ve matured, I have realized how important science is, and how lucky we are to have many talented and intelligent people in the world who understand so much more than I ever could. So I feel a bit like the lovely character in Lessons in Chemistry, exploring and enjoying the chemistry going on in my sourdough. It’s like the astronaut in The Martian said, “I’m going to science the shit out of it!”. Who knew science could be this deliciously fun?

La rentreé is the expression used to signify the time to return to normal life after the summer holidays in France. I can’t wait for la rentreé in Provence when everyone heads back north; the roads become quieter, parking is easier to find, markets are manageable, and a lovely calmness settles over the region. This happens at the end of August, so there is still plenty of beautiful weather to enjoy this quieter period dehors.

However, my own rentreé back to Canada, I am less enthusiastic about. Canada is a fine country, don’t get me wrong. Nothing feels as good for my mental and physical health as Provence.

But this year things felt off. It’s been such a busy year with work; I never got much of a break, and I know that was causing some challenges. My mind was quite often preoccupied with work, sometimes I’d reach the top of a col while riding and not even remember how I got there. I was feeling a general ennui that I couldn’t shake. I know my daily cycles in beautiful places were instrumental in keeping me well, and I was taking in all the beauty as much as I could. Soaking up the searing heat, listening to the cicadas, smelling the lavender while it was in season, and eating all the delicious seasonal produce as possible. I spent lots of time with friends and plenty of time just staring at the views. There were brilliant moments to be sure. 

And as always, as I knew my time (a few weeks less this year) was winding down, a sadness began to envelop me. This year, more than ever, it feels like there are fewer guarantees. With the insanity around the globe, who knows what the future holds? I like to imagine, of course, I will be back in Provence, maybe one day for good. But nothing is certain, and the older I get, the less certain I become. I like the wisdom that comes with age and experience. Perhaps it’s just natural, then, when you know how fragile everything is, it becomes impossible to escape the ennui. I just need to embrace it for what it is. How very French of me.

À bientôt ma belle Provence.

Autumn has officially arrived. Not remotely my favourite time, but not one of us has any control over the seasons.

We were extremely lucky to end the summer on a high note: stunning blue skies and +30 temperatures. Of course, I spent as many hours as possible riding my bike in some of my favourite spots. And I felt extra lucky, as I was supposed to be leaving for Montreal, but the air traffic control strike gave me a reprieve. 

But the weather here this time of year can be fickle. The Mediterranean is still very warm, mixed with cold air coming from somewhere (I have no idea how this actually works, but I’ve read that this time of year, in particular, is extra unpredictable) and can create some spectacular storms. Which is exactly what transpired on the very first day of autumn.

My friends Katie and Ben returned to Provence and were keen on a bike ride. Given I am running short on time and trying to get to all the best routes, I begged them to come out on one of my favourites, albeit a bit climby and risky, given they were calling for some major thunderstorms. But we all checked the Meteo and it said nothing would arrive until late afternoon. Alas, they were wrong; we could see it coming in and knew we wouldn’t escape it. We were high up on the plateau when the lightning started, and all I wanted to do was descend and get the heck out of there. Thankfully, the driving rain only started the last four kilometres or so, but it was soaking and very cold. I channelled my inner Belgian and time-trialled back to the car without really being able to see much. I threw my bike in the car, but had to wring out all my clothes. Water just sloshing out of my socks, jersey, jacket, etc. Gross.

I then had the added enjoyment of driving back home with numb fingers (even though I had the heat set at +30, I was still shivering) through what seemed like the worst of the tempest. Huge areas were flooded out, rivers of water gushing down hills, and sewer drains overflowing. I was just happy to have made it back without having to stop anywhere. The weather carried on like that for the rest of the day.

Yes, autumn, you love being dramatic, don’t you? But you can keep your drama, I’d much rather have the easy-peasy warm days and nights of summer! 

Striking is sport in France, a type of national pastime. They love to strike, and they do it fairly often. But usually, they are kind enough to tell us exactly what days we will be incredibly inconvenienced so we can make plans in advance.

In my early years in France, I wasn’t aware of this cultural activity. So I was not prepared. I planned to meet friends in Florence for a long weekend, but when I arrived at the train station, nothing was running. Having never experienced une grève, I wasn’t sure what was affected or what to do. This was also long before we had smartphones or ample access to the internet. So I went to my friends who lived nearby and considered my options. 

The one train that was running was going to Paris CDG. So I thought I’d just get to the airport and book a flight to Florence. Easy peasy. But when I arrived at the airport, it was chaos. Everyone was stuck with nowhere to go. All the hotels were full. I boarded a hotel shuttle, hoping to find something. Along the way, I met a woman from Quebec, and we decided to look for hotels together. 

In the end, there was only one room we could find, so we decided to share it. It was super strange sharing a room with a total stranger, but she was kind, and if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have had her computer with which I was able to book a flight to Florence the next day. 

So, when my friend reminded me that there was going to be a strike this coming week, I realized I had some work to do. It turns out that this will be an air traffic control strike for two days, on the day I was supposed to be flying to Montreal for work. Given my previous experience, I just couldn’t bear the idea of sharing a room with a stranger, or sleeping on the airport floor if everything were to go sideways. I decided to beg my colleague to handle the work event for me, and rebooked my flight a good few days well past the strike.

And it seems like I am being rewarded for making a prudent decision: the weather this upcoming week looks gloriously summery. It feels like I was gifted an extra bit of time. This time around, I think la grève might just be working out in my favour. 

Yesterday was the last day of August—a bright, blue-sky, toasty 31-degree day. It was the perfect way to bid adieu to the last official full month of summer. Here, we ushered in the first day of September with an insane overnight storm, piles of rain, and grey skies. It seems fitting.

I know I sound like a broken record, but why must summer fly past so rapidly? Seriously… It’s just cruel. I am aiming not to fall into my usual depression about the shorter days and cooler nights. I am desperately trying to hold on to every last second of sunshine and heat, and there will be plenty. After this major system passes today, it looks like very warm and sunny weather is ahead for the foreseeable future. But, as we all know, this time of year is changeable, and with the Mediterranean Sea being hotter than normal, it can set off some intensely dangerous storms. Hopefully that doesn’t happen, but the weather is impossible to predict these days. 

As usual, I’ve filled the days with as many bike rides as possible, visits with friends, long evenings on the terrace watching the light fade, and there was a wedding thrown in for good measure. Rose, the daughter of the winery owner, had her picture-perfect wedding here this weekend, and it was absolutely magical. She was, as usual, stunning, and the setting was magnificent. And luckily, the weekend weather was equally perfect. 

Now I await the return of my bicycle, which is in the shop due to shredded shift cables (I guess I do use it a fair amount), to carry on soaking up every last morsel of summer-like moments we have left. 

When I first started coming to Provence (over 20 years ago now), I was somewhat of an anomaly. There were very few women cyclists around, and if there were any, they were always riding alongside a man. A woman solo on a bike provoked all kinds of reactions from the male cyclists. From mansplaining what was wrong with my bike set-up, to unsolicited conversations, to inviting themselves to ride with me, or suggesting I join them for a drink. Sometimes it was fine, but often it was annoying and even a bit frightening. More often than not, I’d been a more seasoned cyclist than most of the men I’d encountered, given that I was racing over a quarter century ago, but they still assumed I must not know what I was doing.

But how times have changed, and now I see so many women out on bikes here. About 50 percent of the time, they’ve been alone. The occasional older one like me, but mostly young, fit, athletic women. I love it, it gives me so much joy to see. I was thinking about what pleased me about it, and it boils down to something pretty important: being a strong, physically fit woman is an act of defiance, it’s tenacious, and an act of resistance against the patriarchy.

It is the antithesis of the buxom, soft, barefoot, and pregnant woman in need of a man to keep the wolves at bay (but exactly who are these wolves?). A powerful woman stands on her own and doesn’t require saving. And she’s very, very hard to control. The patriarchy doesn’t like that one bit.

When I see a beautifully athletic woman, I have nothing but admiration for her, for what she’s achieved, usually despite hundreds of hurdles. The world isn’t set up to encourage or give women space to become powerful, so we simply have to fight tooth and nail to take it.  

To all the athletic, strong, intelligent, thoughtful, hilarious, generous women out there, brava. Take up every bit of space you deserve.

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Food is a fairly central feature in my life. I’ve gone to school to learn more about it, written a thesis about the importance of it, and my work is all pretty much in the industry. For me and those passionate about it, it’s not just sustenance. And it shouldn’t be. It’s one of the great pleasures of this life, and if you are lucky enough to be food secure, it’s your moral imperative to appreciate every last bite.

There is a long history with food and France, it once being the food capital of the world, though I believe that title now rightfully belongs to Bologna, Italy. Food heaven. But the French really do have some of the best products in the world. Their regional designations ensure quality production, they have fabulous weather to grow just about anything, and food is fundamentally rooted deep in their culture. 

It's just that in Provence, we struggle to have a good meal out. Everything is so expensive, and often just average. And fancy. The French love fancy, and I don’t. I prefer deliciously simple. The ingredients are amazing here: fresh, ripe, local. There is no shortage of brilliant food; just leave it alone and let it do the heavy lifting.

So we find ourselves eating at home a lot, sharing ideas, recipes, and excellent local wine. My friend Sarah even makes her own sourdough bread (which is plentiful, one thing you don’t need to make yourself), so I asked her to show me how she makes hers. I wanted to make focaccia as it’s not something you can find here. Mine has always turned out fine, but not great. Even with her expertise, she had a similar experience, so we determined the recipes we’ve been using have too much water. Still, it was mouthwatering, served with salads, and the best Spanish anchovies I’ve ever had.

One can eat extremely well and cost-effectively here, if you simply buy what’s local and have a feast at home with it. The best part is you can wear flip-flops and shorts; no one will care.

And it’s back. The second official heatwave of the summer. They don’t issue warnings here if it’s under +35, so it’s not like it’s chilly when it’s not a heatwave. It’s just not extreme heat.

At first, it seemed quite reasonable. Warm, but not unusual. I thought perhaps it was because we are all now so used to the heat, being August and all. Or maybe because the sunlight hours are a tad shorter than they were for the June heatwave. The last few days, my morning rides have felt just peachy. Not too warm at all.

But as the day carried on, we all knew it was here for sure. My car said +49 when I got into it, and after driving a bit, it dropped to a comfortable +41. Currently, one of the weather stations is saying it’s +42.

Regardless of the exact numbers, I think it’s fair to say it’s very warm out. And it will stay this way for the next seven days. There is a big concern about fire as we haven’t had any rain in ages. I honestly can’t remember the last time. Plus, a little bit of wind. A perfect recipe for increased risk.

So what does one do? Well, you get out before it’s nuts (though it’s often already 30 degrees around 9 am). Still, that feels pretty good comparatively. Then there are things like endless cold drinks, watermelon, dips in pools, and afternoon siestas to keep you comfortable.

But before long, the nights will be cool again, the sun will rise later and set sooner, and we’ll be daydreaming for days like this. I like to stand in it and feel the intense heat envelope me, just soak it up, so I can remember when I am covered in layers of clothing, looking out to a snowscape. I’ll take an August heatwave over a snowy winter any day of the week.

There is indeed no perfect place. There is no perfect anything; sometimes very close, but perfection is truly impossible. Provence is blessed with stunning landscapes, sunshine, blue skies, endless delicious local items, cycling, and so much more.

And the weather is pretty terrific too, if you like sunshine and warmth. Not much snow, if you enjoy skating or skiing, it’s not for you. Of course, there are seasons here; the winter can be chilly, and there are heatwaves in the summer. But overall, it’s quite pleasant.

Then there is the Mistral. I think we are all united in our opinion of the wind. But the Mistral isn’t just any wind. It is a strong, northwesterly wind that produces sustained winds averaging 50 kilometres an hour, sometimes reaching 100 kilometres an hour. It can last for several days—we just had a stretch of at least 10 days. Periods of the wind exceeding 30 kilometres an hour for more than sixty-five hours have been reported. It can drive people crazy, as the French say, “le vent qui rend fou”.

In the summer, occasionally it can cool things down, but oftentimes it’s smoking hot and creates a type of convection oven effect. It can make you feel cooked. Sometimes there is respite in the Drôme, where it blows less. In the other seasons, the wind can be brutally cold and downright miserable. It definitely makes cycling challenging; even a walk into town can feel unbearable.

So the fact is, even in an idyllic place like this, there is always something to keep you humble. Van Gogh said, “The wind in this country—especially the Mistral—is something one has to wrestle with, but it does create the most beautiful effects in the wheatfields, with the movement and changing light”. Without question, the beauty here absolutely helps you wrestle with it.

Alors, the social activities are in full swing. It happens every year, everyone who’s been away comes back, everyone who is here is excited to see those who’ve returned, and it’s one big fiesta.

The last few weeks have been hectic. There have been dinners and barbecues, visits, bike rides, photography exhibition openings, birthday lunches, and musical evenings in the vines.

But the big event was the arrival of the Tour de France back on the slopes of the Mont Ventoux. It’s been several years since the Tour has been here, so the energy in the region was filled with excitement and anticipation. I’ve watched a big bike race from the last hairpin of the Mont Ventoux before, and I know the circus that follows it, especially on mountain stages. No one I knew wanted to get mixed up in that melee, so Katie and I decided to check it out from a little village just 10 kilometres from the start of the climb. It was perfect. The party-like atmosphere was fun, yet not insane; you could get a great spot to watch and quickly escape after they passed to watch the final bits on television. We cheered, took lots of photos, snagged some swag, and just like that, it was done and well worth it.

On top of that, I’ve had to move around a bit, but it’s allowed me to spend some quality time catching up with friends properly. A few days back at Le Clos gave me a chance to have a good visit with Henri and participate in the craziest tasting: pairing his lineup of wines with different flavours of ice cream. Yes, ice cream. He had a big group of Americans coming for a tasting and thought they would enjoy it. We had at least a dozen flavours, and it was super interesting. There were some surprisingly good pairings, though it wouldn’t be my first choice of what to have with a beautiful glass of wine. Currently, I am staying with Henk and Anita in their cozy gite. It’s been such a pleasure to spend time together, chatting on the terrace in the evenings, and feeling the comfort of having caring friends close by.

But now, I have to put my head down and work, work, work. The social activities will have to be put on pause for a few weeks (which isn’t a terrible thing for this introvert), and there will be more to come, of that I am certain!

I love being outside. I can spend hours upon hours outside just staring at the blue sky or anything, really, for that matter. But only when it’s warm, and if it happens to be sunny, it certainly makes it even more wonderful.

We all struggle with being in the moment. Life, work, health, relationships, these things all keep our minds very preoccupied, and it’s often hard to stop ruminating about one thing or the other. I’ve had several rides recently where I arrived at the top of a long climb, and can’t quite remember how I got there. I was so in my head about work/life, I definitely wasn’t enjoying the moment or the views. I’ve had to remind myself to focus on what’s in front of me.

But then there are other times where I sit outside as the clouds in the sky turn to a bruised purple and the sun sinks behind the hills, and I just stare. For ages. Until it’s dark. Just breathing in the beauty and feeling my heart grow full.

This is why this place is so special to me. It can make me surrender to it and let go of all the whirling in my brain. It makes me pause, look, and take deep breaths. Mexico and the ocean have a similar effect on me. My wish is for everyone to have a place on this planet that helps them experience this kind of peace and joy.

The other day, Jason mentioned I should watch the documentary about the Tragically Hip. He said it was excellent; it made you proud to be Canadian, and it made you super grateful for having grown up at the same time as the Hip. He was correct on all accounts. It’s an emotional series that left me weeping. And thinking.

I am often very pensive while in Provence. I think it’s the space, the nature, and the hours upon hours of cycling in the quiet. It gives me time to reflect, which often causes a little melancholy. 

The documentary was a stroll down memory lane and gave me plenty to contemplate. Having grown up in Ontario and not being far behind in age, the story of their experience felt like going home. I’ll admit when the Hip was coming about, I was still following the Grateful Dead around, so I wasn’t super aware of them in the early years. But it reminded me of how important music was to Gen Xers, and, especially around Toronto, how easy access to live music was. It was plentiful and cheap. Seeing live music, whether it was Tom Waits at the old Massey Hall, Jane Siberry or Bruce Cockburn for four bucks at Ontario Place, the Rheostatics in some basement bar off Ossington, or just some local band at the Horseshoe or Lee’s Palace, these were weekly events. Buying records at Sam the Record Man or some second-hand shop was what you did after school on your way home. Music was such an enormous part of our collective experience. We didn’t have internet, and we didn’t have cell phones. The only way to reach your parents while out was on the pay phone, and only if they happened to be home to pick up the call.

I realize now how lucky we were to have such freedom. To have been out with friends, playing pool, listening to music, rather than being online, was an absolute gift. The Hip’s story is one that many Canadians can relate to, as is their music. They spoke for a generation, and they gave a voice to Canada. Gord Downie was a poet; his lyrics were beautiful and powerful. He wasn’t wrong when he sang, “… no dress rehearsal, this is our life…”

So, with his words in mind, I try to appreciate every tragic, beautiful, magical, heartbreaking moment I can squeeze out of this life. Spending as much time as possible with people I love, and being in places on this planet that bring my soul joy, makes this endeavour so much easier. This is indeed our life.

In fact, you must like it hot if you’re planning on spending summer in Provence. Though some summers are nuttier than others, and this one might just turn out to be a humdinger. It certainly is starting off with an impressive amount of chaleur.

It’s not abnormal to have 30-degree temperatures consistently until mid-September, but having high 30s in June, that’s a touch unusual. I haven’t had a day below 30 degrees since I arrived, and several in the upper 30s. As a result, a lot of produce is early, which is wonderful, but sadly, the jasmine disappeared too quickly.

It’s during these hot days that I wish I were a morning person. Like a super early-riser. I have always admired people who get up early; it’s such a quiet and beautiful time of day (well, more so in summer when it’s light out. In winter, you’ve got hours of darkness before the sun rises, which I would happily rather sleep through.) But in summer, when it’s +30 by 9 o’clock as it was today, getting out early is such a treat. Having breakfast outside and it being so warm that you don’t need a sweater is almost miraculous.

And don’t get me started about cycling. The light is beautiful, and the air marginally less stifling, and there are so few people out. It’s magic.

But try as I might, it’s rare for me to get to sleep early enough to get the hours needed to wake up in the wee hours of the morning and feel refreshed. It’s only due to a change in time zones or a noisy neighbour that I am forced to rise before my natural time. So, on the infrequent mornings I can manage it, I will soak up the blissful solitude and freshness.

And just like that, I am back. This year, the months seemed to pass swiftly; winter was insanely busy with work, which helped occupy a lot of my time and mental capacity. There was also a fair amount of travel, almost pre-pandemic levels. Toronto twice, Vancouver, and Mexico (also twice). That bit was very cheeky, but I have zero regrets.

So now, I have returned to one of my happiest places on the planet during a very early heatwave. Yes, it has just turned to summer, yet we have had temperatures in the mid to high 30s since I arrived, and the cicadas have started their summer chants already. Such a contrast from last year at this time.

Though anyone who knows me knows this is not a complaint. I love summer. I love the smell of jasmine and lavender, the colourful oleander blossoms, and the perfect blue skies. Early summer is such a special time in Provence. I am so lucky to be here.

This year, I will be doing a fair bit of house-sitting for my friends Katie and Ben, whose busy schedules haven’t allowed them much time to come here. Their home is lovely and welcoming, in the village of Le Barroux. This is a tiny perched village, surrounded by the wilderness of Les Dentelles, which has the potential to lead to certain autre choses. Autre choses with long tails. And scratchy fingernails. And sharp teeth. Thankfully, Katie called Cedric the exterminator to come and sort things out. He said, c’est normal, of course. It’s normal in the countryside and old houses. And the noise does seem to have diminished, and in a few more days, they should have vacated the premises for good. Phew.

Life is never dull in the French countryside; there is always something to keep you on your toes. And my first week has been no exception. Between scorching heat, lots of bike rides, vermin control, and work, it’s been busy. The week wrapped up with a catch-up dinner at Chez Max with Henk and Anita, and a long, hot cycle to Sarah’s for a dip in her pool today, while the bells of the Abbaye rang out to entertain me along the way. A perfectly lovely Sunday and week in Provence. Happy summer !

There are not many things in this life I dread more than saying goodbye to Provence. It’s an all-consuming heart and body ache. I feel sad for weeks leading up to it, even though I try to soak up every last drop at the same time.

I am still awed by the beauty here. It takes my breath away, often at unexpected moments. I see new routes, new villages, and new terrain, and I am always amazed it can all be so spectacular. I never get tired of it. I said to Jason, my eyes love what they see here. Being surrounded by such natural abundance that is alive and thriving helps me to feel alive.

I also adore all the oddities that occur in rural southern France in a Mediterranean climate. Like wild boar running around, the sound of cicadas, the random closures of shops and restaurants that make no sense whatsoever, endless snails, and having to rescue lizards and geckos that get stuck inside, or even trickier, stuck in the kitchen sink or bathtub.

After all these years, I still can’t believe I won’t wake up to this every day. It has become so normal and natural to me that adjusting back to North American life is much more difficult than the other way around.

This blog is my love letter to a place that has stolen my soul and kept it in a vice grip. It’s a stroll down memory lane, a way to hold on to it just a little bit longer. It’s not always funny or happy; it’s simply my truth. Thanks for coming along for the journey.

It’s Thanksgiving in Canada today, my favourite of all the holidays. There is no stress about gift-giving or assorted challenges other holidays bring. This one is about celebrating a good harvest, enjoying delicious food, and appreciating all the good things and people in our lives. Quite frankly, it’s something we should do far more often than once a year.

This time of year also tends to be reflective for many of us. As the days get darker and the weather cooler, we have more time for introspection. I am pretty good at taking stock throughout the year, but this time of year is particularly emotional. Saying goodbye to the brightness of summer and facing the fact that a long winter is ahead is never easy. It’s also when, sadly, I have to wrap things up in Provence.

The weather has been some of the worst in years: the most rain in September in France for 25 years and the coolest temps in more than that. But there have still been glorious days of bright blue skies, and the views never stop being beautiful. So, I have been grateful for every moment I’ve had.

I’m grateful for my friends here who have made my life so rich. Also, to all the other lovely people I’ve got to know over the years, such as the charming fellows at Mercy cheese shop in Carpentras, or delightful ladies at the flower shop in Beaumes-de-Venise. And, of course, Bianca, the farmer down the road who has returned after a short hiatus to produce the most perfectly delicious and sweet tomatoes. This list goes on.

But I never, ever take the beauty of this place for granted. It is beyond words. Not only are the villages, even the tiniest ones, absolutely charming and picturesque but so are the natural wonders of this place. From the intense blue sky to the fields of olives trees or grapevines. From the mountains to the gorges and river valleys. From rolling hills to the massive plains of the Rhône. From the pockets of intense purple of the July lavender to the pops of red set against green leaves in October. It seems endless, and it fills my heart so profoundly. For all of this, I am deeply thankful.

Since Jason left and my Muffin-sitting duties concluded, I’ve been feeling rather glum and keeping a low profile. I also feel this way because we seemed to lose a whole section of summer to early autumn, and the days are getting decidedly shorter and cooler. My body and mind are designed for summer, and I am at my best in the heat.

People always make fun of the fact that I like hot weather. They always say things like “But I thought you liked the heat” or “Only you think this is nice, it’s insanely hot” or some such variation. Just because I was born in Canada does not make me automatically love cold, snow, or winter. In fact, I have nothing but hideous feelings about that type of weather. And there are endless reasons why.

Let me start with how much I love being outside. I would spend all day every day outside if I could, if the weather is pleasant. For me, pleasant is +28C or above, with sunshine and no wind. There can even be humidity, I don’t care. So long as I am comfortable in the shade and don’t need socks or a sweater, I am happy. But physically, I am likely different from others. I am an efficient sweat creator. Gross, I know, and it doesn’t matter what the physical activity or how cold it is out, I sweat. My understanding is this is actually a healthy thing, so when it’s over +28 and this happens, the shade or breeze doesn’t affect me. I dry off and feel refreshed. But when the mercury dips below that temperature, the wind or shade chills me. Immediately. I get purple lips and numb fingers and toes, and it can take hours for me to recover.

The best way to describe it is like having a fever or flu for 52 years of my existence pretty much every day, except for a few months of the year. Would you like to feel like you have the sweat chills most of your waking life? I think not, nor do I. So, for a few brief moments, I get to be comfortable; my joints move well, and my body is relaxed and not tense. To me, it’s priceless to feel this way. And unfortunately, rare.

Yes, I love the heat. It’s seldom too hot for me, but even someone who loves the heat can have a threshold and can admit when we hit the +40s, it can be quite toasty. On the odd occasion, I say something like, “Wow, it’s hot today”, it doesn’t mean I don’t like it or might struggle to do certain activities. It’s simply an observation. I am a summer person through and through, and for me, heat and happiness go hand in hand.

It’s always nice to find out you’re not entirely crazy. Reassuring, in fact. When I saw a headline in the New York Times that wrote about the “September scaries,” I felt seen. I felt like perhaps someone out there got me, and I’m not alone.

The article spoke about the dread-filled feeling that comes upon many of us when the calendar flips to September; those who love sunshine, endless heat, and freedom. Those who love the freedom only summer can provide.

In the article, they talked about how, in September, you must get back to reality and deal with work, kids, school, bills, etcetera, etcetera. But it’s not only the end of vacation for some; it’s the end of sockless days running around in little more than a bathing suit. It’s the end of long days of light, bright blue skies, swimming (outdoors), scorching heat, perfect peaches, and so much more. For me, autumn is a depressing season even though it seems the rest of the world finds it romantic, it’s essentially the end of complete liberation, which sends me into an ongoing depression.

And this September seemed to skip from intense summer to mid-October weather in a day. We had almost 10 days of Mistral, which made things so cool I had to put the heater on overnight. Though officially, we haven’t seen a day below +20, it’s a far cry from the +26 or +27 it should be. Thankfully, the weather improved, and we had some lovely +26 days with lots of sunshine and no wind. A touch too cold in the pool for swimming but still pleasant enough to dip the toes in and lie about under the warm sun.

To make it all just a touch more endurable, Muffin’s company was utterly uplifting, and the sunsets were crazy beautiful. Still, nothing makes up for the dwindling light and donning of socks, so here’s hoping we continue to get mid-20 temperatures and lots of sunshine for the foreseeable future.

I can’t think of a more perfect cure for the blues than spending time with a dog. Though I suppose it depends on the dog. For me, there is nothing more heartwarming than the company of a Labrador.

Since Wednesday, I have been on Muffin duty. Henk and Anita needed to head back to the Netherlands for a spell and asked me to watch Muffin while they were gone. It worked out that it would be right after Jason left. And I have to say, while packing up again to stay in yet another location isn’t the most fun thing in the world, the distraction of a jolly, somewhat mellow chocolate lab has been a panacea. It’s always hard after Jay leaves, and jumping right into walks, feeding, cuddles, and general elderly dog management has certainly helped keep me and my mind occupied. Muffin is a pretty special older lady, and she’s got pep and tons of love to give.

Good thing too—I don’t know what happened, but we went from crazy warm summer to mid-autumn weather in an instant. Everyone is talking about it. I read there hasn’t been this cold weather in early September since the 70’s. John, who’s lived here for 30 years, says he’s never seen anything like it. I’m thoroughly depressed about it. Perhaps that’s overstating it a touch. The Mistral has been insane, which is why it’s cooled down so much. And while I’ve been forcing myself out on the bike, the idea that I might not get another chance to go out with shorts and a tank top and be hot is unbearable. Last year we had +30 temps until mid-October. I was seriously hoping for a repeat, but it’s not looking that way.

I mean, it’s still beautiful and the sun is still hot, but the pool is now quite chilly, it’s definitely more like medicinal therapy to get in than enjoyment.

So, thank goodness for Muffin. She is pretty much deaf and blind with some serious bad breath, but she has endless love to give, and her antics make me laugh out loud. I love coming back from a ride to see her excited wiggle. She helps make this early autumn weather and Jay’s departure all the more bearable. I’m inches away from getting a lab of my own again… I can feel it.