Lettres de mon moulin

A weary city writer trades the clamor of Paris for a crumbling wind‑and‑flour mill perched in a sun‑drenched Provençal valley. The opening pages unfold a charming legal transaction that suddenly becomes a portal into a world of pine‑scented breezes, lavender horizons, and distant Alpilles silhouettes. The prose captures the quiet awe of stepping into a forgotten stone structure, its broken wheel and overgrown walls promising both work and wonder.

Inside, the mill has already claimed its own eccentric tenants: a horde of startled rabbits that have turned the platform into a makeshift headquarters, and a solemn, ancient owl who watches from the attic like a philosopher of the night. As the narrator settles into the low, lime‑white chamber, he begins to record the vivid rhythms of rural life—the lowing of cattle returning from the Alps, the soft trill of a fife, the rustle of rosemary. The story invites listeners to linger in this sun‑lit refuge, feeling the gentle pull between city ambition and the simple, fragrant cadence of the countryside.