A French country picnic next to the vines, olive trees and a small cabanon.
The Provence has perfumed air cyprus and pine. Goat cheese, figs, almonds...
It is a way of life not to be confused nor compared to the north.
Under the blue sky the limestone mountains reflect the light that sets a mood that painter's try to describe.
Renoir...
Picasso...
Matisse...
And local painter's with unknown names at the brocante.
The villages climbling up the hillside with the streets weaving towards the church in the center, the bells the heart ringing the hours, telling the stories of the lives lived.
In the valleys the crops grow, the feast of the hands, the eternal picnic.
Spread your blanket wide.
A green glass jug wrapped with woven straw.
Filled half way, a block of cheese, a knife...
Hot from the baker's oven a couple of baguettes.
Midday.
After the last sip, the wiped crumbs, a kiss of delight-
Some flowers gathered to put in the pottery vase back home.
Finds from the French brocante.
