I am back home. Or am I really? Where is home anyway? I don’t know. But this much I know: things seem to happen at a different pace over here, in Provence. I am trying hard to make my children love this place. After all, it is where I grew up.
It’s harder than I thought. My younger one wants to speak English. Why wouldn’t she? But when she does, everybody is looking at her as if she were a freak. No, she’s only British! We are not in the touristic part of Provence. We have to conform. She has to speak French. I am glad she is trying. We’ll get there. Eventually.
The views of the Mediterranean sea are breathtaking, and there is magic in the light over here. I wish I could train for my races here: there are hills, traffic-free roads along the beach and fantastic trails. What am I doing in London again? Why did I leave?
There is always a small chapel to reach at the top of a hill (Notre Dame De Miremer in this instance), and I feel like I am travelling back in time, sharing with my daughters what I used to do every weekend. Ah, memories!
There is only one thing: I can’t get anything done. I don’t seem to find the time to write. There are builders in the house we rented for the holidays, because the building works have been delayed. It doesn’t seem to bother anyone.
C’est la vie. And customer service has never been France’s strongest point. The owner of the house seems more interested in trying to find out why I came on my own with the children anyway. Hubby is working, I explained. He didn’t seem convinced. Provence remains a very traditional place. Some things never change.
On this note, I’ll take a nap now. I hadn’t realised how tired I was before coming here…