The views east from the domaine’s ivy-covered kitchen porch continue to enchant. Kay, the caretaker, shared that after each group departs, the porch is jammed with wood folding chairs. Thus each morning we are joined by the loving presence of past visitors who have munched croissants, pastries, bread, quiche, and fruit as they/we plan our daily outings. In Paris Jean Clough introduced me to Fado, a Portuguese music genre. Fado translates as “destiny” and its haunting guitar and vocals suggest a “nostalgia for that which is not yet gone”. Such is the light ache of Provence’s ancient mystical beauty. As our porch view fades each evening, we cook, eat, drink, clean, and share stories. Last night a powerful rain descended, its percussive strength and sound, its cleansing minerality and smell, a spontaneous reminder of all that comes and goes. Over dinner, a starter of apricots, arugula, and burrata and an agrodolce main of sauteed Dorado with blistered tomatoes, sultanas, and toasted pine nuts, Kim lovingly blessed Provence’s continuous surprises and our group’s clear bond, a closeness made possible by his and Cass’s love and generosity. Before I headed to bed, I scanned the darkness from the porch. The air was still thick with moisture. A near distant, brightly lit cylinder that we believe to be an abandoned dovecote, alluringly glowed as if to say, “know me now, remember me always.” Fado. It’s French too. We don’t know if the cylinder is a dovecote, but for now we’re satisfied with that idea that it is.
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