My life in 36 feet, my life in Provence

I have been reading about life in warm sun soaked stone houses. In Provence, in Umbria, in Tuscany. Charming Carol Drinkwater.  The fabulous Ferenc Mate. (get his Tuscany book!! It is hysterical.)
 Francis Mayes and Peter Mayle again. 

We are going to Ostau de Baumaniere near Les Baux, and Crillon le Brave near, well near nothing really...

...but not far from Avignon. And Mt Ventoux. (Not that I'm riding up Ventoux with a broken foot. Not me.)

And I was feeling envious - of the level and neatly trimmed gardens, of the inviting pools lying lazily in the sun. Of the dramatic terraces. Of the golden stone and blue shutters. Of the vineyards.

Then I looked at the pictures in Carol Drinkwater's book, The Olive Farm. There are weeds gone to seed in the olive grove. I have weeds gone to seed in the vineyard and under the big oaks. Her pool is crowded on a terrace, the seating up some stairs and off to the side. Mine too. 

I covet the pool at Ostau de Baumaniere, level with the building...

...until I look at the dramatic terraces at Crillon le Brave

And the fabulous pool. 

And then I realize I have a pool on a terrace...

...a warm golden house with blue shutters...

...and a huge mountain just outside the back door. And since swimming is about the only thing I can do (other than eat and sleep and I've gotten really good at those) I have been spending a lot of time in the pool. Back and forth, 36 feet at a time. And I realized: I love it.  I don't want to live in Provence, or in Tuscany, I love it here.

How lucky am I?