As we drove up the broad valley I did remember the shape of the landscape. I could see Grasse on the hill, and the outline of the higher hills beyond was familiar against the sun-drained sky, but everything else seemed to have changed. Where there had once been meadows there were now rashes of white and ochre villas, and huge traffic roundabouts, and building sites that heralded new Casino supermarkets and more fuel stations and a drive-thru’ McDonald’s. Up the gentle slopes of the valley the developments had spread until there didn’t seem to be a metre of space anywhere that wasn’t a road or an apartment block or someone’s fenced-off patch of garden. Jack and Lola had gone quiet in the heat.

‘Soon be there,’ I said brightly.

The campsite was up a winding road on a steeper section of the hillside. There were mimosa trees overhanging the gate, some of the branches still plumed with powdery dead flowers, and banks of nettles beyond the driveway. I understood, when the concierge showed us to our apartment in the converted barn, why the place was cheap. But to my relief there was a wide view of the valley that reduced the sprawl of building to toppled white sugarcubes and there was even a grey-blue smudge of sea on the horizon. The immediate area was planted with vines and olive trees, and the middle distance was punctuated with dark cypresses. Lola flung her suitcase on her bed, took out her bikini and went straight to the pool. The water had a greenish tinge, but there were plenty of bleached sunbeds lined up round it. Four boys who had been half-heartedly playing water volleyball stopped to watch her as she settled down to read.

Jack took possession of his cupboard of a room, meticulously laying out his binoculars and notebook, and a guide to the birds of the region. I kicked off my shoes and sat on our tiny terrace, listening to the woodpigeons in the trees and letting the sun soak into my bones. When I closed my eyes the scent, a mixture of baked dust and thyme and the faintest suggestion of flowers, was more familiar than any landscape could be.

‘Mum, is this compulsory?’

We had spent four days sunbathing and eating and reading – at least Lola and I had, while Jack flitted under the trees or sat on a rock with his binoculars – and now we had driven up into Grasse and found a parking space among the lines of glittering cars in the square. I thought we should visit the Museum of Perfume.