Branches burdened by blossoms buzzing with bees, petals floating in the wind.
Daisies, violets and dandelions poking their heads up out of the grass.
And weeping willows, springy and green.
And sleepy bastides (a breed of village built around a central marketplace).
Golden walls and terra cotta roofs.
Peeling paint over crumbling brick and rotting wood.
And the white-tipped peaks of the Pyrénées playing hide-and-seek with low-lying clouds.
Cats perched precariously on wrought-iron windowsills, curtains dancing in the breeze.
And black cats crossing your path.
Living to eat. Fresh-picked strawberries and market asparagus.
And bookshops that double as restaurants.
Picnics in the park, sipping Floc from plastic cups.
And lazy evenings on the roof with LIDL’s finest cidre.
Carved stone churches, cool and earthy like well water.
Kaleidoscopic light filtered through stained-glass windows.
And the warm smell of melted wax.
Poetic war memorials.
And pétanque with octogenarians in the park beside the river.
The land of d’Artagnan: All for one and one for all.
This spring I’ve been feeling quite Gersoise.
And while spring will be replaced by summer, I don’t think I’ll ever feel quite ready to leave.