Provence

So often sleeping in a hotel bed is uncomfortable, but not at Hotel Burrhus: I have no back-ache this morning, and I rise with energy. At the reception, Laurence, the owner, greets me and asks if I would like coffee or tea. She invites me to sit on the deck and enjoy the weather. Outside, the square is full of voices: merchants hawking their wares, tourists haggling with them. “It’s the Tuesday market tomorrow,” Anouchka had told me, eyes glittering. “It’s village-wide. You’ll like it.” From the terrace, I have a bird’s eye view of the canvas roofs over each stall.