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Death is all around this melancholic month

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These November mornings the shutters no longer open to that blast of heat that wilts the plants and bakes the land to cracked stone.

Instead of a cobalt blue sky; a haze of heat shimmering the horizon; there is just grey – dank, pinpointed grey that penetrates both clothes and soul.

Most days the parc is eerily shrouded in mist. Sometimes I can see no further than the fig tree near to the entrance of César’s compound.

The frélon trap now empty of its hornet enticing beer, swings forlornly on its branches; a swaying repository of dried out insect bodies.

Other days the fog ends at the beginning of my land, obliterating the crossroad with its two single-track roads to the same destination – Lavit.

As the last of the leaves fall, turning and winding in a final bright candle of colour, there is once again a pounding sense of the cycle of life.

Birth, growth, death – year after year; obeying a tune we hear but faintly, and as humans turn quickly from, unwilling, unable, to face our own mortality.

But one cannot be insulated from destiny in La France Profonde. Death is all around this melancholic month starting with All Souls or Halloween.

Only in the graveyards is the grey defied. Huge pots of Chrysanthemums are placed at almost every........

© Herald Scotland