A whole day of driving about in the hills with their outcroppings harsh against the clear sky. Entrechaux with its ruins high above the road, on a hill just rising up from the earth, Mollans with its moulin à huile and the history of the cultivation of olives and olive trees. We used to go there years ago, to see the great tall shiny vats: thick, fruity, thicker, and so on, taking our bidon to fill it from the one we preferred. I like very green and very fruity oil, and loved the way it dripped, like so much syrup, from the spigot into the vessel. A recent law ruled against any product not tightly covered, sealed away against any germs – alas for the tall vats.
But, explained the owner of the St. Hubert, where we went for lunch, whereas the olive groves used to be torn out to make room for more vines – wine, wine, more wine – about ten years ago, they were replanted – progress looking backwards.
Back home in the cabanon, we listen to the incessant chirrup of the crickets on one side and some faint birdcalls.