It's Me, Sara Louise

Yesterday the winds in Le Petit Village were whipped into a frenzy. A frenzy being one of winds so hard and forceful that you walked at a slant and had to shout to be heard. And if you want to know who I was shouting at it was Fifty, telling him to hurry up and get on with it so we could get back inside.

I don’t know if I met the famous Mistral or not but the harsh winds that blew through here yesterday turned the village into an old ghost town. The shutters on all the houses were closed and in the five (super duper quick) walks I took with Fifty, I never saw one single villager. Not one.

At one point a group of about twenty hikers walked by my window but they don’t count. They were tourists, faces red and weather beaten, and obviously not smart enough to know that you shouldn’t hike through mountain villages when it’s so windy your face is getting pelted with bits of ice and gravel and at any moment you expect a tree branch to break off and impale you. And those little metal walking spikes you’re carrying aren’t going to save you.

So there you have it.

The only people stupid enough to be outside were me and the tourists.

At least I can blame Fifty.