When I opened the shutters this morning, there was ice on the roof below, and the gardens lining the ‘Tins’ river in the ravine were white. A waning full moon was suspended in a violet-pink sky, and our fire still glowing as chimney smoke curled its way from surrounding rooftops in the valley.
On a whim, snug in our goose-down coats, we hiked up the hill behind Le Castellas to the terraced fields that once held orchards. Giant peeling cerisiers now invite birds and insects to make their homes: covered in lichen and fungus, there are miniature worlds to be discovered.
There were patches of frost in hollows, in contrast to the intense heat of the sun-drenched slopes, with dandelions waiting to send wishes into the ether and acorn cups, ready to be raised in a toast to a magical dimanche, ‘above’ Céret.