The Provence, neighbor to Languedoc, may have its Mistral (known in song and story for driving people mad--or at least exacerbating insomnia) but we have our own famous wind, la Tramontane, and it has struck the Languedoc again. I'm blaming my sudden, complete lack of interest in standing over a hot stove or weeding/pruning/watering on this wind.* It's that discombobulating--at least that's what I'm telling myself.
The summer heat that had settled in for the past few days has been savagely disrupted today by alarmingly near-constant gusts from the north/northwest. A local friend told me about the 3, 6, 9 adage; basically, the Tramontane blows for either three, six, or nine days. Have mercy, three entire days of this chaos, let alone more, might sorely test my nerves, even if it is brought on by a wind so timeless and specifically from this region as to be sung about by the iconic native son Mr. Brassens. Okay, so he's the icon you may never have heard of, but he really is quasi-worshipped across France--on a par with Jacques Brel (of "Ne Me Quitte Pas"/"If You Go Away"). Georges Brassens is generally well-known across Southern Europe, if not all of Europe.
Anyway, there's a strong wind blowing here, one of the several local winds. (Yes, you have the vent Scirocco, which brings sand from the Sahara, the western vent Cers, the vent Marin, and the notorious vent Autan). I'd write more, but I'm feeling slightly...winded.
*I'll be back in the kitchen once I'm properly hungry.