In my current location in the Pacific Northwest, we are fog bound.  Walking through a daily soup of mist, my mind returns to a magical week I spent in the south of France, beneath legendary blue skies. When I’m traveling, I tend to not write much.  Instead I take notes, sense impressions, and do the actual writing when I’m settled somewhere.  So today I’m piecing journal fragments with photos that invoke the senses as an offering to the gods of light.

The woman who owns the linen shop says she wishes she could sleep in just one morning.  She lives around the corner from the church bell tower.  It’s ringing now.

M. and I stopped at an olive grove and tasted olive oil made from olives fresh off the tree ~ vert and ripe.

Had chevre for lunch at the farmhouse, surrounded by cherry trees, honey suckle, lavender, jasmine, fig trees, magnolia trees, roses, poppies, red poppies.

Magenta bougainvillea in Fayence.

Went to perfume factory. Bought fig scented room freshener.

Heard wild pigs squealing in the night, or maybe it was B. and T. making love.

Ici, c’est un bon vieux

Sunday ~ I think it is a wonderful thing to be woken up by birdsong, rushing creek and church bells.

In the village, we met a friendly white cat