We pulled out to sea from behind an angular fortress. Minutes later, white water frothed up the sides of the boat and sharp morning rays glared down on my back.
If Provence were splashed over an artist’s palette, huge dollops of ochre, greens and blues would run into each other, punctuated by bright dots of violet, yellow and deep, blood red.
I watched my first Grand Prix in 1993. Dad and I sat prostrate on the sofa of our French apartment, digesting a leisurely mediterranean Sunday lunch of mozzarella salad and copious amounts of baguette.
“Oh, the kids here do one of those every year” someone shrugged by way of explanation. I continued to gawp, utterly horrified, at the giant papier-mâché edifice hanging only a few meters above my disbelieving head.
As my kamikaze driver bombed down the one lane highway from Irkutsk, I marvelled at the distinct lack of snow chains, breaks and general caution utilised by other road users.