Aux Tables de la Pierre Blanche...

We rise before the Provençal sun at every crack of dawn, to reap the harvest lest the midday heat reap us. Branch by branch, tree by tree, row by row, we collect cages upon cages of ripe, juicy, fresh figs. The minerals of the soil, the rain from August's freak storms, beams of photosynthesised energy are harmonised into sweet, soft, seedy pulp.

When we first emerge from our tents nestled in the olive grove, still in the dark, most of us are dazed in sleep, but as we pick, we wake with the field. Stillness, silence, then birdsong and the chattering of mankind between the leaves. The sun rises, the sky intensifies in saturation, my arms sting from the fig sap which has leaked its way into the gap between my glove and sleeve. We share glances, jokes, songs, conversations, wallowing from the shadows to the deeps. Then it is time to sort the fruits of our labour, by size and quality and colour. Afternoons are blissful. We break bread (and figs) together around the table. I nap in the hammock or read scripture in the olive grove. Or perhaps we venture further, the Mediterranean coast is a short cycle ride away. Like the leaves of a 'figuier', my eyes drink all the daylight they can, and with the dusk our bodies know it's time to rest. And so the cycle begins again. "...To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:

A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;

A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up;

A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance..."

My mind drifts to this verse from the ancient book of Ecclesiastes (written by the Hebrew King Solomon around three thousand years ago, in a land not unlike this one, also fertile with olive groves and fig trees). The cycles, the rhythms, the ordained seasons of the earth, of our lives too.

This was a season of plucking what had been planted, tended to and nourished months, even years before. This was a season to swim, to rest, to live, to dance.

Thank you to Cédric and Abigail for your beautiful vision for this land, it has been an honour to witness it come to life and to have a little part in that. Thank you for hosting us in your little parcel of Eden. I'm grateful for everyone we encountered, shared meals and picked figs with, thank you for opening your hearts.

La Pierre Blanche is a homestead, pedagogic farm and community based in the Var region of Provence, southern France. This summer my friend Laura and I stayed and worked here as workawayers (volunteers). Their habitations, olive grove, greenhouse and fig plantations are rooted below the slopes of Le Coudon (mountain), on land which Cédric's family have lived on for generations. I am sure many more generations of this family, this community and wandering souls like ourselves, will find solace, inspiration, and a home here.

Photo credits to my friend Aleks (first two images).