Jennifer brought a pack of mineral water bottles down from the villa and we sat, sluicing the smoke from our throats, as the fire brigade went to work.

The sapeurs-pompiers, in their blue protective suits and red helmets, played their hoses over the remains of the fire, damping down the smouldering trees and three lines of vines that had been ablaze only minutes before. They had come from the volunteer station in Magalas, the next village along from us, nosing their rescue vehicle around the side of the garages and into the edge of the vineyard from the far side, with Alistair guiding them and talking to the crew chief as his men tackled the fire quickly and efficiently.

Daniel watched with the kind of awed fascination that young boys reserve for firefighters.

‘Is there going to be an ambulance, too?’

‘These guys can do that as well, Daniel,’ I said.

‘Sick.’

The senior fireman, a tall, severe-looking Caporal, who introduced himself as Bernard Lepine, brought out a first-aid kit and checked the children over. Rowan, who was the most fluent French speaker, acted as translator while he gave Lucy a heel strap bandage to support her ankle, then applied a dressing to a small burn on Alistair’s arm. Sean waved away treatment for his cuts and scratches, insisting he would clean them up himself.

Lepine packed up his kit and strode down the hill to inspect his crew’s work. The fire was out now, all the woods and surrounding area thoroughly soaked to prevent any lingering sparks from restarting the flames. Crewmen tramped through the woods, checking their work, making sure the seat of the fire was well and truly extinguished. The storm had yet to break and the afternoon heat was still brutal, a furnace of humidity that seemed to press down into the top of your head and push against you from every side.

Lepine returned a few minutes later, talking and gesticulating at Rowan at some length. From the rapidity of his speech, and his grim expression, I guessed that she was being given a talking-to on French fire safety measures.

Eventually, Rowan turned to the rest of us with a rueful smile. ‘He says not to have barbecues or discard cigarettes anywhere outside. Not to allow open fires, not to discard glass bottles anywhere apart from in the recycling, and to keep children away from matches, lighters and cigarettes.’

‘Of course,’ I said, giving the fireman a nod.

‘Oh,’ Rowan added, ‘and he’s asking if everyone in our party is accounted for.’

In all the panic and confusion of the last twenty minutes, I realised that had slipped my mind. I was so wrapped up in making sure my children were OK, the drama of the sapeurs-pompiers arriving and the disorienting effect of breathing in smoke, that it had not occurred to me to check. Good thing he’d asked.