There's something alluring about yellow stone walls and pastel hued shutters. In Provence, we were constantly bombarded by beautiful old buildings that made me shudder at the thought of returning to a Manchester brimming with grey concrete. Likewise with the grocery shops - if only Tesco hadn't conquered our isle and we could pick our fruit et legumes from rustic wicker baskets, misshapen and vibrant.
We spent two days in Aix-en-Provence, en route from Paris to Barcelona (there is to be no chronological order to my holiday posts I'm afraid). Such a short time, yet my favourite part of our trip. Wandering down alleyways, swimming in icy cold yet crystal clear lakes, driving carefree wondering what delights the road would have in store for us. There was a power cut in the apartment we were staying in one night; subjecting us to casting aside our phones and music to sit around the table by candlelight, sharing the most delectable pizza and pink fizz. I fought to keep my eyes open as we cautiously drove up to the view point of Gorge du Verdon; hair-pin bends and precocious cliffs loosing to the spectacular views that I couldn't get enough of.
Provence, I'll be back.
All photos my own