An Ascent of Mont Ventoux 



trunk troughs, where the mountain shepherds 

 come to water their flocks. The temperature 

 of the spring is 45 °F.; and its coolness is a 

 priceless boon for us who have come from 

 the sultry oven of the plain. The cloth is 

 spread on a charming carpet of Alpine plants, 

 with glittering among them the thyme-leaved 

 paronychia, whose wide, thin bracts look like 

 silver scales. The food is taken out of the 

 bags, the bottles extracted from their bed of 

 hay. On this side are the joints, the legs of 

 mutton stuffed with garlic, the stacks of 

 loaves; on that, the tasteless chickens, for our 

 grinders to toy with presently, when the edge 

 has been taken off our appetite. At no great 

 distance, set in a place of honour, are the 

 Ventoux cheeses spiced with winter savory, 

 the little pebre d'ase cheeses, flanked by 

 Aries sausages, whose pink flesh is mottled 

 with cubes of bacon and whole pepper-corns. 

 Over here, in this corner, are green olives still 

 dripping with brine and black olives soaking 

 in oil; in that other, Cavaillon melons, some 

 white, some orange, to suit every taste; and, 

 down there, a jar of anchovies which make 

 you drink hard and so keep your strength up. 

 Lastly, the bottles are cooling in the ice-cold 

 water of the trough over there. Have we 

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