September in Provence can be charming with its late-in-the-year warmth, excepting the unexpected wind. Something purporting to be the mistral blows down the Rhône when one least desires its presence. But, today, the curse of the South is non-existent.

Market Day in St Remy de Provence and the place is flooded with Americans looking for end of season bargains. It’s like high summer has chosen to make a last-ditch reminder of its economic raison d’être. Those huge tomates anciennes are beckoning to be conjoined to a little picadon. The rennes claudes, sweet and juicy, don’t suffer the fears of their English counterparts: if a tree dies, so will its owner (or vice versa).

By the pool, we few cosmopolitan hangers-on lap up the globally warmed rays, intent on returning to colder climes with the hint of an envied tan. We dip in and dip out of the water and likewise of our undemanding novels; immersed in the care of nothing, to which we cling before reality hits on the next plane home. A solitary tree frog sings a lonely song from time to time.

Later, just before dark, the odd lost swallow flies overhead looking for its compatriots. I sit here quietly, reading of news from home wherein a son has just bought his first house and my parents are accompanied by decorators. It’s an hour and a half away by air and a million miles to another life. My hostess lends me a jacket to combat the sudden drop in temperature, but it’s still warm enough to take supper outside.

My picture is of the town hall at Tarascon, the place to be when celebrating Christmas in these parts. I won’t be there: I’ll be in Dorset with my family.Tomorrow, the temperature begins its downward slide, but Provence will still be here. Different, but still beckoning timelessly with a disregard of the seasons.