I have never been so grateful for air conditioning in my entire life. We arrived at our Carpentras holiday let in late July after a six-hour drive from Lyon, during which our sat nav decided that "scenic route" meant "abandon all hope of reaching your destination before sundown." The mishap came just outside Avignon, where I confidently directed us down what I insisted was a shortcut but turned out to be a farm track ending in a locked gate and one extremely unimpressed donkey. My partner sat in silence for a full three minutes before asking if I would like to consult the map. I would not, but I did anyway.

The season announced itself the moment we stepped from the car. The heat in Provence at this time of year does not merely warm you; it presses against you like a friendly but overbearing relative. The cicadas were already at full volume, that relentless midday drone that somehow becomes comforting after a few days. Our stone house sat behind a small iron gate, its shutters closed against the sun in that practical Mediterranean way that makes everything look slightly mysterious and abandoned. I half expected a note saying the owners had fled to Norway until September.

The pool was the first thing I noticed, though "noticed" suggests a calmer reaction than the actual yelp I emitted. There it glimmered, turquoise and impossibly inviting, surrounded by terracotta pots of lavender already going slightly grey in their summer fullness. The season had baked everything to that particular Provencal palette of dusty green, bleached stone, and purple shadows. Even the air smelled heated, if that makes sense - warm pine, dried herbs, something faintly honeyed from the linden trees I would later identify.

Inside, the house was deliciously cool. Thick walls, I reminded myself, feeling briefly clever about remembering this architectural fact. The tiled floors were almost cold beneath my feet, a sensation so welcome I stood in the hallway for an embarrassingly long time just enjoying it. The kitchen opened to a covered terrace where grapevines had been trained overhead, their leaves filtering the light into moving green patterns on the table. A bowl of apricots sat waiting, slightly warm from the morning market, so ripe they practically sighed when touched. This is what July in Provence gives you: fruit that demands immediate attention, that will not keep until tomorrow.

I poured a glass of tap water and tasted the faint limestone of the region, then immediately opened a bottle of rose instead because, well, Provence in summer. The season dictates your rhythms here. By mid-afternoon, everything slows to that deliberate pace that initially frustrates then gradually seduces. We found ourselves planning excursions for early morning, accepting that noon to four belonged to the sun and sensible people staying very still with very cold drinks.

That first evening, we walked into Carpentras proper as the light began to soften. The town was waking from its siesta, shopkeepers rolling up metal shutters with theatrical clatters, the boulangeries doing their second brisk trade of the day. Children reappeared in the streets as if summoned by some invisible evening bell. We bought bread still warm, cheese that smelled properly of barnyards, tomatoes so deeply red they seemed lit from within. The season had concentrated everything, intensified it.

Sitting on our terrace that night, the heat finally releasing its grip, I watched moths circle the outside light and listened to the cicadas finally quieting. The donkey incident felt properly distant now, almost fondly ridiculous. There would be time tomorrow for markets and perhaps a vague plan to visit somewhere specific. But for now, July had taught me my first lesson: in Provence at this time of year, you do not conquer the season. You wait, you adjust, you surrender to its tempo, and eventually you wonder why you ever lived differently.