An Afternoon Beneath the Olive Trees

Past the last terrace, where the gravel path softens into grass, the olive grove begins. The trees are older than the house, their trunks twisted by a century of mistral.

The quietest corner of the estate

In the early afternoon the light filters through silver leaves and lands in small, moving patterns on the ground. Guests bring a book, a blanket, sometimes nothing at all.

We leave a few chairs beneath the largest tree. They are rarely empty for long, and almost never in a hurry to be returned.