Where am i? Undoubtedly, this question fills you when, on the very first day, you gaze from the vines of Castelmaure, lands on the Serre. The heavy arid mountain, lying like an old sleepy, petrified lioness, speaks only of South. Your eyes think of the Andalusian sierras heated to white by the midday sun. At the sweetness of the ochres of the Atlas when it falls in the evening. To the violence of the Argentine pampas, if the wind rises. The Greenhouse should not be underestimated. This magical mountain, a sort of crown of limestone nibbled by the vine, protects the small plateau of Castelmaure from cyclothymic maritime influences. On its folds survive, inta perpetual battle with the rock of sober garrigues whose only coquetry lies in the powerful effluvia of thyme, rosemary and lavender. In its entrails hide springs, caves and so many other mysteries.
In the Mediterranean light of the Greenhousereply, to the north, the sombre and angular brilliance of long streams of black shale. Here, in the Corsican manner, the density of the maquis, hesitating between the green and the anthracite, covers the slopes of high hills annexed since the dawn of time by the heavy hordes of wild boars whose hard hair echoes the tints of the soil. Between kermes oaks, junipers, strawberry trees, mulberry trees and cistus, roads remain, paths where the man gets only rare rights of passage.