August, as always

The villa above l’Escalet is awake again. Marguerite has been asking about the tomatoes since March, Jean-Mi has the boat back in the water, and the quiet beach is exactly as you left it — the loud one is exactly as you left that, too, which is why we still only go on Tuesdays, and only when you say so.

A season is not a trip. Nobody briefs their own summer; it returns, like the light. For the households who keep August with us, the office holds the weeks, the kitchen, the boat and the standing arrangements from one year to the next — renewed each January with a single word, adjusted with a short one.

This year’s one new idea — each season letter carries exactly one — is a dinner that floats: the florist’s barge from Saint-Raphaël, moored off the point for a single evening, table for twelve. It goes to the first household that asks.

— E.