A House in the Var Plane-trees and alders and pines lean down at precipitous angle from the scarp enveloping the village eastwards. In summer their canopy makes the house as cool as a Roman villa for dreamers on the balcony, in earshot of the river’s gluttonous way with sucking-stones. Every year we come back and every year a different light pours out. Pickles ferment in jars sealed the previous summer, and summer itself is a lavender smell folded in the sheets. Children’s voices saraband around the corridors; those younger selves straining to stay awake on the hammock…
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