Ten thirty at night and the kitchen door is still open onto the veranda, where Vita sits sphinx-like at the top of the steps listening to the night sounds - crickets, frogs, nightingales.
Earlier we sat in the courtyard of our favourite crêperie, chatting to the owner, the only ones there in the warm dusk, as she regaled us with stories of her great grand and grand parents. Stories of political resistance, intrigue and the birth of the communist party in this region.
Our first guest arrives this Friday to promised good weather. He will assume that South West France is always like this and not realise just how lucky he is.