The early morning is glorious on the roof terrace in the village.

The early morning sun in department 66 is invariably bright and blue skies punctuated by occasional wisps of fluffy cloud over the mountains enclose this huge, endless space. The sharp shadows of each mountain ridge are caste highlighting a new view of the familiar peaks. Buildings stand out as if they were new with each new days pattern of contrasting light and shade. In the morning sun, the yellow walls of the houses are much yellower, the green much brighter. The blues stand out.

Morning is a time of contrasts. There is much quiet and calm. Time for contemplation. Time for noticing the new view created each day by the different effects of the rising sun. Time for seeing the growing changes as the sun burns back the nighttime cloud and moisture. It’s peaceful. Down below in the street there is a gradual awakening punctuating the calm.

In autumn and winter there is a smell of wood smoke wafting rich deep and dusky across the rooftops. In spring and summer the terrace is buzzed by thousands ‘l’hirondelle”. Swooping in long arcs of flapping their tiny wings frenetically to gain height, and releasing themselves for yet another high-speed pass. Or they are chasing each other in pairs chattering to each other with that chirp cheep cheep call.

Morning is a time to sit, quite still to watch this action.

The village comes awake quite early. A commuter drives their Renault in a hurry to the nearby junction in the main square. A neighbour slowly paces towards the boulangerie for ‘our daily bread”. Another is greeted, with a “Bonjour. Ca Va”and a conversation takes place. One or two guests in the village make their way to buy provisions and bread for ‘le petit dejeuner”. The calm is shattered

Another car stops and parks outside the “presse” before buying the Independent and some “Gitane, oblivious to the small traffic jam which will be momentarily and inevitably be caused. Raymond our neighbour makes an entry and his loud French voice is heard. He quickly directs some traffic. “La Bas”, La bas”. Movement is unlocked. Calm returns.

Morning is a time for coffee. Big big cups of coffee. Coffee with milk. We have not yet naturalised ourselves so much that we can take our coffee like some of the our French friends do, in big bowls, without any pretence of being a cup for drinking. Neither do we use our freshly bought bayonette as a ubiquitous mopping tool, breaking large pieces and dumping in the bowl to soak up as much of the milky liquid as possible.

No, we are still English and sip from a traditional but large mug but we have seen this cultural difference in breakfast at close range at another delight of the morning, the petit dejeuner in a café or bar. Round the corner in the “ Bar Laetitia” we have ordered our morning coffee and eaten our breakfast, freshly bought from the boulangerie across the road. Being away from the terrace does not detract from the opportunity to sit and watch and contemplate. Time to read the “Independent” to discuss the day’s events and yesterdays.