Provence wears it well...snow, that is.

We found our Saab where we'd left it a month ago in the longterm lot of the Aix-en-Provence TGV (bullet train) station.  But we didn't find it as we'd left it.  In our absence, a wintry vandal had been playing havoc.  A drift of white engulfed the south side of the car, fading off to nothing at its northern edge like an exaggerated artist's lesson on shading.  The front wipers were sticking straight up at 90 degrees to the windshield, while the back wiper was hanging below the windshield and bent away from the car.  We dug through our trunk to find an ice scraper that had perhaps never been used and set to work. 

When we'd last visited our house in Haute Provence, a dusting of snow had gotten us terribly excited.  In his novels, my favorite writer Giono speaks of icy, snowy winter winters in Haute Provence as a regular occurence.  But in the few years since we'd bought our home here, we'd never seen a flake.  We snapped photos all weekend, excited by the spectacle of our countryside frosted with white.




But unfortunately the sight was short-lived.  See those dark clouds in the photo above?  They soon burst into torrents of nonstop rain.  That together with the snowmelt quickly swelled streams and rivers to flood-stage proportions.  When we went to our neighbors' house for dinner, Jean-Claude had to rescue us and ferry us across his ford, which was too deep for us to cross in our low-slung Saab.  We bumped along the remainder of his kilometer-long drive accompanied by the sound of rushing water everywhere.  Sadly, that snow never made it to Christmas.

Two days before our first post-holiday descent, we got the news that a freak snowstorm had gripped southeastern France.  Marseille was snowed in under 20 centimeters (Marseille, remember, is that sunny city on the Mediterranean.)!  Highway A7, the Autoroute du Soleil (highway of the sun) was closed!  Fortunately, the TGV lines were open, and late Friday afternoon we boarded the train for the 3-hour trip south as usual.  This time of year we are locked into ultra-short winter days, so I was unable to witness the counter-intuitive transformation of the landscape to white as we headed south.

After we freed our car from winter's grip, we headed north toward our house.  A full moon rose like a remote and silent witness over a softly mounded, glittering landscape that seemed almost haughty in its beauty.   We hardly recognized our Provence dressed in white. 

As we neared our driveway, Denis rolled the window down.  Shivering, I complained.  "Why are you rolling down the window?"  "To call Brutus!" he replied.  And, using his big voice, he did just that.  I peered into the darkness, worried.  My biggest fear is that one day we'll arrive and Brutus will no longer be there.  Denis spotted him before I did.  He was flying over the snow, as much as a big, gallumphing St. Bernard can be said to fly.  He stuck his head in Denis' window, snuffling and crying with joy before bounding over to my side. 

Followed closely by Brutus, we pulled through virgin snow into our driveway.  We succeeded because the drive slopes slightly toward the house.  Of course, we didn't think of the consequences of this for the next day.  We were just grateful not to have to haul our very heavy suitcases down the drive by hand.  Clinging to the bannister, we hauled ourselves and them up the snowy icy steps.  The house was gently, blissfully warm, thanks to the ultra-efficient geothermal radiant floors.  Its familiar scent of slightly damp earth--a lingering post-construction odor of the natural ochre on the walls--greeted me like a soft breath.  Home!  All that remained  before a snug night was to warm up some frozen lamb daube for us and for Brutus in cozy reunion celebration.

The next day, even though it was two thawing days since the snowstorm, we woke up in a wintry wonderland.  The familiar sight of our village of Revest-des-Brousses, visible from our terrace and south-facing windows, seemed transformed into a different place by the snow. 

Brutus had had many a slice of buttered toast and the sun was mounting in a brilliant blue sky by the time we set out to do our Saturday morning shopping at the Manosque market.  We got into the car and drove about 15 feet before becoming stuck on that same slope that had allowed us to descend to the house the night before.  I was busy shoveling snow and sprinkling gravel under the tires when two friendly neighbors appeared with a 4x4 and a chain to haul us out.

Besides the snow, the highlight of the weekend was a fabulous gift from our neighbors Jean-Claude and Agnes.  J-C dropped off a box containing a fresh shoulder and rack of marcassin (baby wild boar) that a friend of his had hunted.  I haven't been able to talk Denis into taking up this macho sport (our area is the wild boar capital of France), and J-C knew that I was dying to get my hands on some of this succulent and flavorful meat.  Thanks to his thoughtfulness, I was able to entertain myself by cooking the wild boar dishes of my dreams.  On our nocturnal arrival at the house, it'll be wild boar daube that we heat up for our late-night supper.

On Sunday afternoon, we drove up  to the ski station on Lure mountain.  The facility had been put up for sale because lack of snow, but on this afternoon it was seething with skiers, sledders, and snowboarders of all ages.  We tried a bit of snowshoeing, and resolved to buy snowshoes.  Everyone, it seemed, was in a festive mood.  What were they celebrating?  Snow, of course!  And just look at that blindingly blue sky (which has not been photoshopped)!

On the way home, we passed the lavender fields close to the house and had the strangest hallucination.  The shorn rows of lavender in winter resemble soft gray-green corduroy.  But with the snow, their violet-blue shadows made it appear that the field was blooming...between the rows!  Mysterious lavender flowers in the snow...

When we arrived back at the house, Brutus was waiting faithfully on the porch.  We prudently parked on the road with one tire on bare pavement.  Brutus came lumbering toward us, scooping up mouthfuls of snow as he went.  This was his kind of weather!  All that was missing was the little brandy barrel on his collar.  Brutus to the rescue, bounding to save us from the desperate plight of a dogless afternoon!

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