The days are short and the nights long when I arrive at the beginning of February for a two-month sojourn. For me, the first big difference is that I’m awakened at une bonne heure to the dawn chorus. The trees around and within the property seem jam-packed with little birds flitting and fluttering; always too speedy for my camera but, paradoxically, slow enough to warrant a visit to my courtyard. When in Provence, I tend to think of bigger birds: kestrels, peregrines and buzzards that one sees along the roadsides; cranes, storks and flamingos down in the Camargue. But my French doorstep in winter isn’t that different to my garden in England: Monsieur and Madame Blackbird are daily visitors along with some great tits and a plethora of sparrows. I imagine the tourist-laden summer months might be too hot for them to greet the day. Or perhaps they fly north away from the crowds.

One glorious night, quite early on, I heard the twooing of an owl close to hand. Owls can be heard most nights hereabouts: if, like me, you’re a poor sleeper and choose to stand outside under the stars for five or ten minutes of those indeterminate hours that are neither night nor morning, all life is passing by in the darkness. Foxes bark, owls call to each other and the constant rustling and scurrying of unseen and unknown animals is sufficient to send you back to your safe and cosy bed toute de suite. On this particular night, however, the bird sounded as if it might be literally outside my door. I was too nervous to draw back the curtain, fearing I’d frighten it away, but K1 looked out of her upstairs window and was lucky enough to see the wise old creature sitting on a branch of the plane tree. A week or so later, the owl returned, and I too enjoyed the cabaret.

In the summer months, guests are full of praise for the wonderful gardens that K1 has nurtured. Most days, whilst we laze around the pool, she’s to be seen de-heading the roses, trimming back the lavender in readiness for next season’s gift bags, and checking not a single errant weed has been allowed to make more than a fleeting appearance. In February, apparently, nothing stirs and it’s difficult to imagine the delights that lay in store. K2 has pruned a large olive tree and in so doing, almost fallen into the silent pond; the same pond that will house the noisiest of frogs who sing every summer evening. But the lifecycle of the plants continues and almost daily I can see the changes. The potted shrubs look dead but, slowly, they begin to sprout the first green shoots which grow amazingly quickly. The empty spaces below trees are suddenly filled with miniature daffodils, while gorgeous blue hyacinths emerge to meet the soon-to-be spring. But the best thing is the almost instant appearance of the blossom on the fruit trees: pear, apricot and quince are dressed in such outstanding fashion that we await the optimum day on which to take our photos of remembrance.

Finally, if you think our lovely hosts are sitting quietly by the fire waiting for the first guests of the year, think again. Those two never stop working and the frenetic activity I’ve watched over the last few weeks exhausts me. They are sawing and building and painting and cleaning their way through the gites to ensure you have the most wonderful holiday. Very occasionally they take a break: a trip to the cinema, a shared dinner, a quick walk but, largely, they are indefatigable. Surely amongst the hardest workers in Provence, they await your pleasure.

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