It’s four years since I was last in Provence, and little has changed. As you might expect. This is, after all, a part of the world where vast tracts look the same now as they did a hundred years ago. Much is older still: the Roman Maison Carree in Nimes, the Popes’ palace in Avignon, the three-tiered Roman viaduct in Gard, and the Carmargue houses built with rounded ends, their windows clustered in a way that protects their inhabitants from the fierce mistral wind.

Neither have more recent additions much changed. Not since I was last there, anyway. The Eurostar remains the best way to get to France, and the TGV is still as efficient, speedy and smooth as ever. It puts our trains to shame.

We caught a single-decker out of Gare de Lyon and sped down through the French countryside, watching as the Massif Central and then Lyon passed by to the west; the Alpine foothills and Mont Ventou to the east, calling in at such fragrant stops as Valence and Orange on our way to Avignon.

Dad met us at the station and drove us out to St Remy where we sat eating dinner on the patio in t-shirt and shorts, still hot at 23h as the bats swooped around the courtyard, the cigales sang their rasping songs in the trees all around, and fireflies danced in the trees at the end of the drive. It felt good to be back.