For a lot of good reasons, I will share with you maybe one day I hate the Cote d'Azur. It's not my fault that I was born and still less if my parents live there. So once a year, I make a pilgrimage to these places dedicated to senior citizens and working girls in bikinis cooked UV. Fortunately, there is the sea of clouds and his cohorts.
And then there's the garden of my father.
A hillside of limestone hinterland, a happy jumble plant reigns on a piece of terrain. Far away fixtures in the Alps, the small village clinging to its rocky peak, the valley of the Var and the symphony of water and silvery in the morning light. If I squint, in the mist, the sea almost imagine, I can forget the proliferation of opulent villas in the hills and decayed public housing in the valley bottom ...
I scratch the back of the cat with me in walk, I rub the leaves of verbena in bloom again, sniffing rosemary. Pomegranate and threaten its thorns my camera too curious. Amanita ovoid bravely raise their clod before finishing my plate. The shadows lengthen on their persimmon persimmons hung naked. The wind blows. It's time to go.
Four, five, six, pomegranate, grape and raspberry chrysanthemums
Seven, eight, nine, fruit of the cypress, Amanita ovoid and khaki ...
Copyright: Marianne Ciaudo 
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