Saint-Rémy-de-Provence, not far from Arles, is rightly famous as the birthplace of Nostradamus, and as the place where Van Gogh painted the unforgettable ‘Starry, starry night’.

As high summer passes, one of the world’s most beguiling annual migrations begins, as the classic yacht fleet of the Mediterranean sails westwards from port to port, regatta to regatta. Whatever else we think about the wealthy, we can certainly thank them for making possible the preservation of these wonderful yachts.

It’s not all ‘Beer & Skittles’ – or rather, ‘Vin et Pétanque’, living in the south of France.  It's Summertime with a capital S and frankly, the living is not so easy.  There are long queues at the supermarkets, even longer on the roads and worse still at the tiny village boulangerie.  You can’t park, you can’t find a square centimetre on the beach, you despair of ever, ever being served, the post-mistress goes on strike, you start to sweat and you long for a cool, breezy spring day.  You drink gallons and you still want more, you forget you now have to make a reservation at your local restaurant and you gaze with astonishment, bordering on dismay, at the hordes, nay busloads of tourists descending on your village, on your marketplace, on your beach.

Today was Sunday, thank goodness, and the only thing I had to do, apart from my normal father and husband duties, was to attend an opening of an art exhibition in the village.  I was invited by Gérard, who happened to be presenting some of his curious work in the village exhibition.