A Summer Palette

The week started in a sweltering way, the sun ferocious in the blue sky above us, the evenings warm, tranquil and long but all of a sudden summer was cancelled - the temperature fell and the rain plummeted. Today I am sitting at work watching a cluster of soggy and bedraggled pigeons huddle on the roof opposite as a nimble and chilly breeze seeps through the louvered windows and prompts me to reach for the heat pump controller. My heart sinks as I am reminded that winter is just around the corner.

As the warm days slip away into the archive of summers past they bring to mind joyful memories of other summers lived and loved. When I think of summer, I think of Provence, and in particular a succession of heavenly days spent at the most exquisite chambre d’hôte - Villa St Louis. This rambling stone house occupied a corner on the outer fringes of a village in the Luberon. The discreet entrance was a small wooden door which led directly onto the cobbled street. Once inside, you were ushered by a narrow and tenebrous hallway either upstairs towards a rabbit warren of charming rooms or onward through a vaulted stone cellar to the expansive, walled garden hidden on the other side of the house. Yellow and green was the palette of the perfect summer - the exterior of the house was coated with a crumbling, ochre plaster finish which glowed in the provencale sun as the towering plane trees cast cooling shadows across the lawn and scattered garden chairs encouraged reading and dreaming. Breakfast was served on a vine clad balcony as cicadas began to thrum in the morning warmth.

Our gracious and inimitable hostess, Bernadette, was summer personified - a dynamo of a woman d’un certain age, armed with a bicycle, a small car and a zest for life. She welcomed us, she welcomed gatherings of friends, she sped on her bicycle around the village sprinkling joie de vivre and jumped in her little car to drive an hour to the beach when the mood took her - she inspired and awed me and to this day is the blueprint of the older woman I hope to become.

She spoke often of her adored and departed husband who had been a formidable interior designer of the 1960’s and had filled her house and life with beauty. He had wallpapered walls and ceilings in a medley of patterned papers, scoured antique markets for armoires, chests of drawers, charming side tables and adorable lamps. He had strewn rugs upon the scuffed tomette floors and hung the walls with 18th and 19th century prints and paintings. His improbable partner in achieving the consummate decoration of these rooms was time. As the decades passed they gently honed the wooden surfaces, delicately faded the curtains and upholstery and the rugs became worn with use. Every single item in the house felt as if it was placed exactly where it was meant to be and I always imagined that this enchanting interior would remain eerily preserved, immune to the destructive influences of the modern world.

Villa St Louis was my touchstone, we visited year after year - it reassured me that the inner world that I inhabit can and does exist. Years have passed without visiting France and a quick search on the internet the other night informed us that Villa St Louis is now permanently closed. The news enveloped me like a rainy day and a sadness set in that I am still struggling to shift.

This delightful wrought iron settee reminds me of those provencale summers, resplendent in yellow and green, decorative and uplifting - the perfect summery accent for any home.

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