It hit 100 degrees this afternoon with a hot wind. It’s not conducive to a hard day’s work, but the fields are full of southern Europeans and north Africans picking melons. The economics of the crop baffle me; it seems to be demanding of both labour and materials, requiring individual water points for each plant, frequent weeding and miles of plastic film to get the stuff growing at the beginning of the season.
‘I love this place,’ said my neighbour yesterday morning. We were on the terrace watching the sun come up on the bank of fog that had risen from the river that marks the border between the Gers and the Tarn and Garonne. The high ground on the horizon five miles away was in the clear, topped with chateaux, churches and a couple of villages. The fog was moving and individual farm houses would appear below us and then be blotted out again. It had burned away into another blue day by 7.30.
I came upon this place by chance; my neighbour has been here all his life, but I think I’ve grown to love it too.
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