AT 6.30 this morning, when I finally gave up trying to sleep, the temperature was already 22 degrees. A gentle cooling breeze allowed windows and doors to be opened for an hour before all were closed and semi-shuttered in readiness for the heat to come.

In south west France we’ve been on orange alert for the canicule, or heatwave, which has huffed and puffed into southern England as well. For several days here temperatures have hovered between 35 and 37 but we may hit 40 over the next three days.

The first true canicule I experienced came a year after I moved here. I threw windows wide open, considering the French mad to be inside in the shadows, their houses as forbidding and closed as in mid-winter.

And on my sunbed in full mid-day glare I basted my body with Factor 2 oil and lay there – smiling. I was interrupted by my neighbour, Pierrot, whom I’d only met a handful of times then.

His tractor left idling on the road; he’d cleared the ditch and marched across my field. "Are you insane?" he asked in a voice that had already answered his own question.

"It’s a canicule. It’s 40 degrees."

Blithely I’d waved my crisped, claw-like hand: "I know. Fantastic isn’t it?"

Shaking his head and muttering he marched back the way he came, dressed in his summer camouflage.

I now know that the district would have known within 15 minutes that the mad woman who’d moved into LM was lying in her field as the canicule blistered and withered all in its path. (Including me, as it turned out.)

Not too long before, he’d slowed his car to ask why some friends and I were lying out, drinking wine when it was nighttime.

"We’re star watching, Pierrot," I yelled. "Come and join us."

How all was new and wondrous then.

Changed days now, changed days.

Three days ago, my son and I, sat under a parasol outside a Moissac restaurant in shade and 36 degrees.

No longer was I stretching like a cat offering myself to the sultry, humid air.

Instead I was calculating how I’d manage the short walk back to the car as it felt as if my lungs were shutting down and I fought the panic with the pursed lips breathing as taught.

I now know that anything over 30 degrees is dangerous for those with lung problems.

Walking like a geisha in tiny, trembling steps I made my way back and lay in the passenger seat as the air-con blasted me. Once home I crawled to the bed as what felt like an anvil sat on my chest and the air was treacle thick.

I am not asking for sympathy; I brought it all on myself as I puffed merrily away for years, although I don’t think the ubiquitous humidité in all French houses has helped.

To think I first came here for hot sun; cheap fags and vin rouge and now I’m left with only one of the trio. Please God, don’t let "them" take that away too.

So, I’m learning to remain idle and inside until the canicule breaks and returns to the normal 25/26 degrees, which suits me fine.

Outside I can see the flowers and plants equally struggling; some like the nasturtiums shrivelling even though well watered when the sun descends behind the house.

This year I have wheat fields all around me and the huge, hired combine harvesters are working their way up from Lavit.

On the main road to the village the sunflowers have reached up overnight and the faces are on the verge of blooming. Corn as "high as an elephant’s eye" spikes out its growth but this rough version is purely for animal feed.

The only corn on the cob I have ever seen here comes in stunted plastic pouches from Spain and one knows it last saw the sun many, many months ago.

With the canicule usually comes the secheresse – the drought – and already the farmers’ personal reservoirs are emptying as they drench the crops.

This is when the cracks often appear inside and outside our houses as the clay bakes and hardens in the ground.

In the hidden places the house lives up to its organic purpose and the damp of winter is sucked out by the force of summer.

That is the theory anyway and the cycle begins all over again with the autumn.

Everything has its cycle in this rich landscape; everything must have its cycle for life to continue as undisrupted as possible.

Change itself though has a cycle.

I still have an Afghan lying at my feet but a different Afghan, who hasn’t sashayed as easily and languorously into southern life as Portia did.

I’m still looking at the same view but now it’s pretty lush with my plantings and still indifferent to my presence.

And I’m still here – just: Body battered, leg warped and too aware now of human frailty.

So we all stumble on and when the canicule arrives far too early to be normal, we batten down and wait for it to pass.

For this too will pass.