"We're hitting the road. Pagnol's, Daudet's, Giono's. The black mistral wind pushes us on the path of transhumance and takes us away from the sea to enter the land. These lands of gold and ochre. Here, on the slopes of the hills and mountains painted by Cézanne, the cypress trees bend under the force of the wind, the olive leaves crackle. In the distance, a sheepfold. A refuge, a table, a still life. A ray of sunlight shines through the window and bathes in light these objects that never cease to live, remnants of a moment of conviviality and sharing." mk.