Ah - blissful tranquil somnolent summer days with merely the buzzing of bees and the occasional scrape of cigale wings to be heard. The hammock sways gently beneath the perfumed bay leaves and a frivolous breeze occasionally rustles through the long grasses. A faraway splashing of water flowing into the swimming pool and the clunk of an icecube dropping into a tall refreshing drink merely serves to remind us that this is summer in the south of France.
Actually No! Not quite. To create this sort of idyll, one has to be either extremely lucky, or live in a beautiful old farmhouse way out in the vineyards, miles from a road or a neighbour.
All the component parts are present, and just once in a while, there is the opposite of The Perfect Storm, and there is Perfect Peace, but don't expect to be able to lay your book down, remove your glasses and drift off to sleep, because it's not going to last. Lunchtime is a quiet time, but the temperatures have normally climbed up into the mid thirties, and only a mad dog or an Englishman would venture out to the pool. However, if you do take a chance, you are met with the sounds of scraping cutlery, clashing plates, and loud family discussions coming over the fence. A dog that has lain quietly in the shade will suddenly take it into his head to rush to the gate and bark abuse at a passing postman, and this is the signal for all the other dogs in the neighbourhood to put in their sixpence worth. Cigales are another myth. Admittedly they do rely on temperature and today, when the thermometer hasn't quite made it to the requisite number, they remain silent. But on a hot day, you can set your watch by them, and it is sometimes quite hard to make yourself heard over the cacophony of scraping wings. It only takes one to start up and the entire countryside is suddenly filled with the racket.
Summer time is buzz-bike time in France. Country roads, off-piste tracks through the garrigue, village squares and towns are a mecca for these two-wheeled producers of a high pitched whine, sounding for all the world like a plague of infuriated mosquitoes. Apparently a bike that doesn't emit a loud noise isn't worth the money you pay for it, and will never attract that necessary addition which is the young girl with the flowing hair and mini skirt perched behind the driver. One other fun addition is the radio strapped to the handlebars which emits loud pop music in the same manner as the fine lady who rode a white horse to Banbury Cross. "She shall have music wherever she goes" and so will the surrounding countryside.
Swimming pools become a gathering place for children, none of whom appear to be able to converse in anything other than high pitched decibels, as they argue over the floating armchair, the lilo and the inflatable ball. With Dad still at work and Mum trying to catch a couple of moments of peace after lunch, the kids are left to wreak havoc on siesta time, and such is their stamina, that they can keep it up until well into the evening.
But at last peace returns. The cavalcade of commuters finish driving past the house, exhausted children fall into bed, parents retire to the couch and the TV, and the last whiff of barbequed chicken floats away on the evening breeze. The dogs are either confined to kennels or are sleeping soundly after a long day of barking, and the cigales have closed up shop for the night.
This is the time to go out into the garden and sit quietly in the cooling air. This is the hour to see shooting stars and watch the satellites navigating their way across the heavens. The local cockerels are catching a few hours sleep on their perches and the lawnmowers and strimmers have been packed away for the night.
It's not the summer days in the south of France that make it the best place on earth to be - it's those summer nights.
