AUGUST IN THE SOUTH OF FRANCE: A PERSONAL SNAPSHOT

Cooler, fresher air began filtering in during the second half of August this year, surprisingly on schedule in this climate-changing world. Drought persists in our little corner of southwest France, though. We’ve had a bit of rain lately, and the local vignerons say that it came at just the right time. I’m happy for my neighbors, many of whom make their living in one way or another off the land. Still, the water table remains well below normal and mild restrictions apply. But we’re retired. When the sky is this particular shade of blue, when there’s no noise to be heard on our terrace except the calls of two or three species of birds that nest in our rooftops, when our Siamese cats pose among the summer flowers, my heart tells me that, when we decided to spend the rest of our days in a rural French village, we made the right choice.

Make no mistake. We’re American. No matter how well that we speak the language, the French know that we are Anglo. It’s uncanny. Wearing clothes that have all been purchased locally, walking into a shop that we’ve never visited before and without saying a word, we are greeted in English. We must all be wearing an invisible sign that only the French can see. It’s not a problem, though. Often, as we practice our French on shopkeepers and tradespeople, they practice their English on us. These sometimes comical, impromptu language lessons are usually good natured, though, improving the vocabulary and grammar of both parties.

I digress. Blue sky. Birds. Yes, and sometimes a neighbor's wailing toddler. Even that poor, unhappy child adds to the feel of the place. I don’t mean to romanticize our village. It’s not special. Maybe that’s its charm. It’s just a place off the main road, without anything to attract tourists, where people live and work and send their kids to school and get together several times a year to celebrate holidays with each other. Writers like me may make it seem like Paradise, but we still have to do the dishes and the laundry, run the vacuum, and pay the electric bill.

I’m willing to bet that there are no cold calls in Paradise.

 

But I digress. Blue sky. Birds. And it being mid August, one other set of sounds begins to creep into the mix. Tractors and harvesters and bouncing trailers, empty going in one direction, filled with grapes going in the other. The vendage, the grape harvest, begins. First the whites, then the reds. Signs all along the two-lane blacktops in the region warn us. We add an extra few minutes to every car trip to compensate for being stuck behind a slow mover. And because the weather is also good for bicyclists, and because folks from the north take the month of August off, as the French do, and caravan to the neighborhood, the simple act of going out shopping can turn into an obstacle course. I used to be frustrated, back when I was new to the region, newly retired, and in a hurry. Not any more. Once you settle into the pace of rural life in the south, you wonder why you were ever inclined to hurry anywhere for any reason. I have informed Cathey that if I ever fail to notice the beauty of Occitanie, even while driving, she should just shoot me.

Another digression. Can't be helped. Birds. The swifts have gone, continuing their epic, migratory loop. We celebrate their arrival every spring and wish them God speed every August. Eating machines with the zoomies, dive bombing and swooping in raucous packs, eating bushels of insects that would otherwise be eating us. And kestrels and house martins and hoopoes and pidgins perching on the gutters and pooping on the sidewalks below.

 

Once again, I have digressed. Blue sky. Birds. Sunlight that seems to emanate from the landscape rather than reflecting off it. The Impressionists lived here and painted here for a reason. I don’t paint, but I can understand why. It’s August in the south of France. Nothing quite like it.