In Provence, France.
I cannot let summer pass by without a visit to this dreamy part of France. Let the photos speak for themselves.
Driving through plane tree-lined roads,
And lavander fields,
The buying or just-looking crowd starts to arrive
To linger and discuss the day’s events over coffee,
Over croissants and sweets,
Over jam-load of jellies,
Then I shop.
Their colourful wares never fail to catch my eyes.
I think of spaces to fill
Or hearts to touch.
I taste bruschetta
Or garlic aioli and dried chiles.
Monsieur entices you to a taste of his tapenades
While Madame poses for another photo opportunity.
A rule of thumb at the markets – do not touch, do not squeeze;
ask for assistance and Madam or Monsieur will gladly choose for you –
will you have it today? the next few days?
Oh yes, I’ve been ‘reprimanded’.
The art of presentation at the market.
The melons of Cavaillon are intoxicatingly sweet and juicy.
There were dried fruits too.
Those spices and their aromas fill the air.
Which ones to go to market with?
Then the music starts to play
And hunger sets in
Roast chickens – chicken from Brest . . . . .
Shall we take a break . . . . .