The poplar trees that bordered it were almost bare, the rains and winds of this most dreadful year had dismantled them already. They were tall slim candles, tipped with yellow flame. They were candles lit in sunshine, too early, before candle-light time.
Autumn was come too soon.
The vines had failed. And yet no one had ever seen the colour of the vines so beautiful.
The road climbs up and up through the vineyards.
The house stands on a ridge, among chestnut trees that were turned already golden and brown, high against the high wall of the mountains.
The mountains were of the colours of the vintage, purple and topaz and red.
The clouds made snow peaks high behind the mountains.
The house has a heap of steep, old, uneven blue-tiled roofs. Its walls are as yellow as the corn. There is a long terrace before it, with a stone balustrade, worn and soft, and a pigeon tower at one end of the terrace, and the tower of a great dark yew tree at the other end.
I thought what a withdrawn little place it was, held quite apart, like a thing treasured and feared for.
The road passes under the pigeon-tower end of the terrace, and round into a courtyard that the farm and service houses close in on two sides.