Warwick poolside

Warwick poolside

Probably my favorite time of year in Provence. Springtime, when the first poppies are out. It's really starting to warm up. Birds are busy building and singing, and daily there is more leaf on the trees. A week ago local vines that had shoots the size of a half smoked cigarette, today have leaves the size of an open hand.

A busy week, retirement only a few months away with still lots to do.  The old windows although quaint let in the winter winds so have all been changed.

Now what colour for the shutters?  The dark brown ones look so sad.  Walking to the village I noticed a hut in the distance.  In the morning sunshine, surrounded by grassland it looked idyllic. It had light grey green shutters. I later located the colour on the colour card at the local builders merchant.  Verte de Provence.  Surprise, surprise.

Equipped with a small of pot of Verte de Provence I tried it out one of the side shutters.  I looked at it from a distance.  Hummed and hawed.  Was I trying to hide the house in the woods?  It looked like camouflage.  An apologie.

Back to the drawing board.

Colleagues in the orchestra often ask me if I ever get to see Warwick.  Warwick and his wife Gloria moved to France when he retired about 12 years ago.  For more than 25 years Warwick was Principal 2nd Violin of the LSO.

They moved to the South west of France.  France is a big country.  For me to "pop over to Warwick's" from Provence is like a Londoner to"pop up" to see somebody in Edinburgh.

Anyway, after many years of not seeing Warwick and Gloria,last October, they finally got a visit.  Very nice to see them too.  Both on good form and enjoying life, along with their German Shepherd dogs.

We spent many hours going over old times.  Many stories.  Few printable. 


Easter, back in Provence I remembered taking a photo of some shutters  of a house near Warwick and Gloria's place.  Striking enough to warrant a photo.

Back to the builders merchant with my photo.  The nearest match: Rouge Basque.


Its been a fun Easter week.  Catching up with village politics in the local bar. Several splendid parties with friends.  One in a Bastide, one in the woods and another in an olive grove. The french fiddle got an airing too.

And there you have it. With a bit of Basque Rouge the house is starting to look jollier too.

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