We awoke to our now familiar room in the old stone house. It is decorated with what adults would call the momentoes of a cultured traveller, to a child the stuff of nightmares: African and Asian masks, all teeth and tongues and bulging eyes, Buddha’s, polish posters of hunched figures and oddly out of place a giant tome about James Brown.

Downstairs the breakfast table is set for two not 8, there is a little pile of pearly white snail shells where the others use to sit. The rusty gate clangs shut on our Swiss companions. Sometimes you can’t help but feel like a prep left behind at school, it’s a big world out there without the safety net of friends.

We set out along the bike path at the base of the range, barely seeing a car. Along canals and abandoned railroads olives and orchards in neat little rows.

When we finally arrived in our first town of Merindol, something was happening. Locals had risen from every stone cottage to celebrate the wine festival. It’s happenstance like this that makes travel exciting. We had a taste of some wine, deliciously pink, then a lunch from a food van. Electro swing was mingling with the sound of the church bells, for a time harmoniously then slowly getting more out of sync. At the school all the pupils were lined up on the stage behind a man playing classical electric guitar, a crowd gathered around, odd for a Saturday. It was a wonderful atmosphere, we were happy to overflowing.

Then we rofe upwards passing a burdened couple cycling with huge panniers like bedraggled donkeys aching up the climb. We reached the the little town of Puget where a German Shepherd on a walk took issue with our presence to the embarrassment of is owner.

Then back the way we came passed the exhausted cyclists resting in a heap by the road, back down to Merindol where everything was packed up and the magic diminished. So much of experience involves people.

Then after a too wonderful to last cloud shadow homeward in baking sun towards the pool.