Funny thing is that after two years our least favourite time of year is the summer. It’s self evident that it’s too hot and too busy, but there’s more to it than that. The sense of community that exists for the rest of the year disappears. Most of the residents succumb to the tourist buck rent out their houses and disappear to the Alps. September is here - it’s wet, windy and cool. Thank god. When we first moved to the south of France all we could think of were the long lazy summer days, the cicadas throbbing away in the olive trees, blue skies swimming pools and rosé. What an idyllic way to live we thought.
Those that remain are the shop owners and the restaurateurs. People whose whole year’s trade rests on a crucial 8 week period. No wonder they are tense and grumpy, that they hustle people quickly off tables and bump up the prices of their goods, and that when they can spare a moment for a chat they are obsessed with the quality of the tourists - analysing them as if they were some sort of an exotic species blown in by the wind, because the wrong sort of tourist (ie those with no money) could spell disaster for their business.
And in the end because of the worry in the air, the oppressive heat, and the streets filled with strangers, the dusty pine filled landscape of the Luberon begins to feel a little threatening, savage even. It’s difficult to describe, and people who visit for just one or two weeks will wonder what I am going on about, but somewhere in the middle of August the region loses it’s rightful personality and only rediscovers itself with the first rains of Autumn and the coming grape harvest.
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