Our home beneath the troglodyte cliffs of Cotignac…

On March 29th, we unlocked the door to our little French house tucked straight into the stone walls of Cotignac, a postcard-perfect village in the heart of Provence where vineyards stretch along every winding road.

We didn’t exactly arrive so much as get gently escorted in. Célia met us in the Vigneron parking lot to prevent us from driving the wrong way down streets clearly not designed for cars, let alone our 5-person station wagon. We followed her as far as we could, dropped our bags within 20 metres of the house, and then set off on the now-familiar quest: parking.

The house itself feels like it grew out of the cliff. Built into the troglodyte rock, it wraps around natural tufa stone, with uneven steps leading from one level to the next, four floors in total, each with its own quirks. The garden sits out front (the back is, quite literally, a rock face), and every window frames some version of Provence: cypress trees, tiled rooftops, blossoming vines, and that hazy, golden light. The Wi-Fi is questionable. There’s road construction just outside the door. But still, it’s our home for a month.

We arrived here a little travel-worn and wide-eyed after a whirlwind few days making our way from Spain to France: four packed nights in Barcelona ticking off icons like Sagrada Família, Park Güell, Candy land (for Olivia) and Camp Nou (for the boys), followed by a magical stop inside the walls of Carcassonne. And then, finally, we arrived in the land of rosé.

Of course, travel with three kids doesn’t exactly mean vacation. It means logistics. It means snacks. It means negotiations. It means attempting school in between it all.

Our Cotignac routine slowly took shape. Mornings began with coffee. Non-negotiable. Then Olivia dashed down roughly 55 stone steps into the village to Lou Gourmandise, where Ganaelle greeted her like a regular. Two baguettes daily, often a fougasse (bacon and cheese baguette), Sacristains and occasionally croissants, pain au chocolats or for a birthday celebration, mignardise (little French cakes). Breakfast disappeared quickly, a few sibling disputes were refereed, and then… school.

We optimistically thought we’d hand over the IXL year long math curriculum books and watch the magic happen (Grades 3, 6, and 8). Instead, it turns out we were to continue our work as teachers. There’s more coaching, more explaining, and definitely more patience required than anticipated. Meaning our own work, our planning, and our blogging have been squeezed into the margins (clearly).

After math, there’s journaling – typed for the boys and handwritten with some drawing for Olivia. Finally, we pack a lunch (baguette, cheese and cured sausage) and head out. By this point, I sometimes feel like I’ve already lived a full day.

And then comes the reward: Provence.

We’ve wandered through the caves (Grottes de Villecroze), stretched out on beaches in Sainte-Maxime, Fréjus, Toulon, and Saint-Tropez, and spent two unforgettable days at the turquoise waters of the Gorges du Verdon pedal boating through cliffs that barely seem real. We climbed to Tourtour, a village that feels like it’s above the clouds, and lost ourselves in the rhythm of the Tuesday market – overflowing with local cheese, produce, flowers and things we didn’t plan to buy but absolutely needed.

One of our final adventures took us out to the island of Portquerolles, a place that feels like it exists slightly outside of time. Just 250 residents call it home, yet in the height of summer, that number swells to over 6000 sun-seeking visitors each day. There are no cars there and we arrived by passenger ferry. You explore by bike or on foot, following sandy paths that wind through vineyards and eucalyptus groves with a bustling marina to support all the tourists. Sandy beaches give way to water so impossibly clear and blue it hardly looked real. It was still only April but the sun was warm with a gentle breeze and before long the kids were in the water. Shoes abandoned, sleeves rolled, faces turned to the sun. We leaned fully into it.

When we arrived, Célia told us Cotignac had just come through 90 straight days of rain. Somehow, we caught the opposite. 28 days of sunshine out of 30. It felt like summer had shown up early… just for us.

Dave carved out two mountain bike days, and in a highlight that feels hard to top, he, Nick, and Papa rode up Mont Ventoux, a Tour de France climb and a three-generation bonding experience. No small feat. We managed to also catch two excellent rugby games in Toulon and Nick and Dave snuck off for a soccer game in Marseille which they said was a wild and exciting event.

We’ve been lucky to share it, too. My cousin Peter and his family brought a bit of England with them from their accents, to football talk and lots of laughter and then my parents joined us for a few days and we will reconnect with them again in Italy this weekend for another adventure. Dave and I were then fortunate enough to sneak off to Château Mentone for a night of quiet, relaxation and recovery thanks to Nonna and Papa to the rescue.

In between it all, there have been a few quieter moments. The kind that might end up meaning the most. Wandering the village streets. Reading in hammocks on our terrace. Climbing up to Sanctuaire Notre-Dame de Grâces, one of the stops along a pilgrimage route through France. Kicking a ball around the turf field. Noticing the season shift as leaves slowly unfurled and flowers began to bloom across the rock walls. Letting the days stretch, just enough.