When the tray starts to turn blue

On the Valensole plateau in July, Provence bursts into song. The purple of the fields stretches to the hills, the donkey carries its fragrant sheaves, and every gesture—cutting, gathering, binding, transporting—repeats a choreography as old as the bees themselves. Before the farmhouse with its blue shutters, the harvest begins. And that scent, indescribable yet recognizable from miles away, is the very soul of a Provençal summer.