Provence
As soon as I opened my front door I could smell it. Along the path, flakes of white ash landed on my arms. Looking north beyond the cliff, I saw a rapidly increasing plume of brown-black smoke. Before long it filled a third of the sky. Not again. Ten years ago, almost to the day, the concrete shack I was renting in the woods a few miles from the village was almost engulfed. Jeremy was having a break and staying with me when a wildfire broke out in the valley below. The smoke and flames looked about a quarter of a mile away and firefighting Canadairs flew low overhead. Friends told us to leave but I refused. I’d left everything behind in Scotland 18 months before and couldn’t face doing so again. Jeremy asked if he’d have to knock me out and throw me over his shoulder. I threw him a look, heated up some soupe au pistou and then sat weeping on the terrace sipping the large gin he’d poured me. But after the wind changed and the smoke and flames headed back towards us, we left, and the house survived.
By evening the smoke was much worse. I knew I would be safe here in the cave, but I help rent out a house ten minutes’ walk away near the forest, and on Saturday had let a young couple in. She was pregnant and although we’d been texting I thought I should go and see how they were. I took the long way round, heading up to the top of the hill to get a better view. There I could see the smoke was coming from the direction of St Joseph, the monastery where our young Mater Dei nuns are based. St Joseph is connected to the Sanctuary of Notre-Dame de Grâces by a forest track. From the wind direction it seemed that both sites were in danger.
