Love in a Warm Climate Read Online Free PDF Page A

about fifty rows of vines in perfect lines following the gentle slope of the vineyard. The grapes were just starting to grow and the leaves were bright green, some of the newer ones the colour of a salamander, almost fluorescent. In the distance on the top of a hill was a building next to a tall tower, giving the impression that the main part of the church had been separated from the steeple. A large cypress tree grew nearby. It was hard to imagine a prettier view. There was a rose bush planted at the end of every third row of vines.
    “How romantic,” I said. “Maybe the wine-maker planted them for his wife?”
    Nick laughed. “It’s a nice idea, but in reality this is something a lot of wine-makers do because the health of the rose bush is a good indicator of the health of the vines, rather like a canary in a coal mine who warns of a gas leak by keeling over.”
    “When we have vineyards, will you plant yellow roses?” I asked. They hadbeen my favourite since I wept when Daniel Day Lewis gave them to Michelle Pfeiffer in The Age of Innocence . I imagined Nick and I walking around the vineyards checking on the vines and smelling the roses before heading home to an aperitif on a sun-bathed terrace.
    “Of course, darling,” he said, hugging me. “Any colour you like.”
    We walked onto a small track leading towards the hills. It felt so good to be out in the fresh air, moving and breathing deeply. We passed a field of olive trees; ten rows with seven olive trees in each one, more or less in a straight line. There was tall grass growing between them, mixed with white daisies, poppies, yellow sweet clover and forget-me-nots. The flowers and grass swayed in the gentle breeze. To one side of the field were mountains covered with thick green foliage and to the other the lane we were walking on, which led to the nearby village. There was a small stone hut in one corner of the field. I imagined the person who looks after the trees must spend his days gazing at the perfect views around him. The whole scene was so serene and pretty, I tried my hardest to imprint it on my mind and cursed the fact that I had left the camera in the car.
    We made three trips to the region after that first visit but it took a while to find our dream house. I suppose that’s the problem with a dream: you have an image of what you want and not much lives up to it. We were shown places that are wrong for one of many reasons. Either they were modern and ugly, and like most British house-hunters in France we were after ‘old stone’. Or they were next to a motorway (not great if you want your kids to grow to be adults) or next to a kennel full of barking dogs (not ideal for a good night’s sleep, which I find hard enough to get without added variables).
    My friend Sarah is mad about yoga and meditation and says you need to visualise things that you want. I met Sarah on my first day at university. She was standing in front of me in the matriculation queue and turned around and raised her eyebrows during a particularly condescending speech by the principal. We have seen each other practically every week since that day. She must visualise a lot of shoes. I have hardly ever seen her in the same pair twice.
    In the visualisation of my ideal home I saw flowers. When I was a little girl my mother and one of her more tolerable husbands took me on holiday to a house in the Savoie. The little farmhouse was surrounded by mountains and close to a lake. It was one of the happiest holidays of my childhood that was otherwise rather interrupted by my mother’s constant remarrying, relocating and attempts at baking. The house was old stone, and one of the things I loved about it was its abundance of flowers. Roses grew up the old stone walls; there were yellow ones, red ones, pink ones and white ones. Wildflowers grew in the grass. Daisies were planted in pots all over the stone steps and wisteria framed the house on all fronts. There were irises, petunias and even