…probably begins somewhere in the early hours of the morning. Noises. Rustling and bustling, pitter-pattering take over from the constant chattering of daytime cicadas, and the incessant singing of frogs. If you’ve never been near a French frog pond, it’s almost impossible to describe. Some years ago, I stayed here with my daughter. We were clueless. Quietly sitting outside our gite, we were suddenly alerted to the sounds of the jungle. Are there monkeys, she asked? Quite reasonably in my opinion, for the commotion was deafening. We tip-toed towards the origin but were too scared to undertake a full investigation. On reporting this the following day, our hosts were taken aback at our naivety.  

And many years afterwards, I spent an extraordinary evening with a high-brow literary group of writers at the Valley of the Nymphs, somewhere in the Vaucluse, waiting for the moon to hit a circular window in the ancient chapel in which we were ensconced. That night was magical for many reasons, not least the accompaniment of some unknown eastern European genius playing a solitary tango on his violin. And then, from somewhere near to hand, the frogs began to sing. We were charged with writing a piece, there and then, set in our surroundings. The others constructed ethereal compositions based on the incoming moonlight. I wrote about a band of mutant frogs taking over the world.

There are always unknown noises outside my open door which is impossible to shut due to the intensity of the heat. Sometimes, it could be a cat who lives who-knows-where and who has taken upon itself to pay unexpected calls. I don’t mind if I’m on the terrace, but I don’t much care for the idea of it coming in and pouncing on the bed uninvited. All that circular scratching and fidgeting they do whilst building a nest amongst the bedclothes is unwelcome.

There’s a netted screen across my door to hinder nasty flying bitey things: tiny spiteful creatures whose singular aim is to cause unhappiness with their personal nastiness. But, in the potential hideousness of a dark Provencal night, my biggest fear is snakes. The sneaky things that can crawl silently in. I haven’t seen a snake here for years and neither do I expect to because my hosts keep the place spotless: no unwanted piles of leaves for slithery types to hide in. But when I first discovered this paradise, there were other owners, and there were snakes close to hand…I saw them. And with them, a tale of a monstrous reptile who haunted the area which is now a haven for joyful frogs. A monster the size of a large rubber inner tube. And this is no exaggeration. I once made the mistake of staying in the Camargue. It’s an area known for white horses, black bulls and pink flamingos. A place where it’s impossible to venture outside in the evening for fear of attack by swarms of mosquitoes, so thick that they look like plumes of smoke. On the first morning, I was charged with searching for croissants. Along the lane, I came across something in the road resembling a Boa Constrictor. Even though I was in the car, I was terrified.

I’m staying put with a pillow over my head.