I am Lucy Honeychurch

I have named the gargoyles. It's something that I like to do. Bruce, Frank and Jerome sit outside my window, and look at me with a foreboding which I probably don't deserve. But they have been there for hundreds of years, and I am just a blow-in. A green around the gills tourist who has fallen completely in love. Just like Lucy Honeychurch. 

Bruce and Frank, the gargoyles. 

That Bruce, Frank and Jerome are at eye level and look into our room is a little disconcerting. But they are gargoyles, and they're all a part of the charm of this little patch of paradise. 

We arrived here in Provence after a slightly eventful trip. The details of the events don't need to be discussed, but we got to Nimes in one piece, after which, we were ferried into waiting cars and taken to our final destination, the Hotel de l'Orange in Sommieres. 

Very little leaves me speechless.

This place has rendered me silent. 

This is the view from my window. 

The bedroom, which I am sharing with El, is huge. El and I have been sharing since Paris. We kick on well. Although we're very different, we also have the emotional intelligence to share a hotel room. We got in here and nearly cried happy tears. The room is gorgeous. 

I would get you a picture, but five minutes after we first saw the room, our bags sort of exploded and there is crap everywhere. My bathers and El's pink ballgown are hanging, drying in the window. I'm sitting near a half-empty bottle of Yuzu gin. It looks like the room has been overtaken by teenage girls. Oh well. 

But I am writing this at the writing desk in our shared space, a lovely old escritoire, complete with plenty of drawers, a lot of cheap paperbacks, and a view of the church courtyard. There's an obscure D.H. Lawrence and Virginia Woolf urging me to sit back on the day bed and dip into them. None of the styles of paintings match. Rustic bliss. 

Hard life, eh?

But you ask who is Lucy Honeychurch and why am I now this person?

Any time I find myself looking out over a place with a view, particularly, an ancient town, with claypit chimney tiles and rows of cypress trees, and sandstone which has been crumbling for centuries, I have the notion that I want to throw on a broderie anglaise nighty, throw open the windows and start singing 'O Mio Bambino Caro."

Just like Lucy Honeychurch did in "A Room with a View."

Yes, I am a daft romantic. 

But park me in an ancient city with a room, with a view, (and even better, a swimming pool, a lot of extra day beds and a friendly cat) and I am in heaven. 

Today's song: