The last time I sat at this table writing my column, the view outside was very different. Then the sky was that cerulean blue, unbroken by cloud, indicating a heat that would be 33 degrees or more by mid-day.

The plants were taking on a listless air, too drained to lift their flowered heads towards the sun, which had the piercing intensity of mid-summer. Green figured in just short stretches in the burnt brown grass of the parc and the lizards, throats pulsing, lay indolently on rock or pot.

Behind the child gate in my sitting room a large fan pulsed cold air onto Cesar who lay panting on the dining room floor, too spent to indulge in either book or rug chewing.

The canicule – heat wave – where we hit 40 degrees some days had fortunately passed but there were hints of its return in the thickness of the air.

When finished, I walked outside, getting pleasure as always from the Virginia creeper and roses finally covering most of the house, hiding both damp and decaying render.

I presumed that the absence of bird sound meant they were huddled on the cool interior branches of the trees or even back in their nests interwoven with the honeysuckle.

Shaded by the parasol at the table outside, I let my eyes rest on the far hills and thought about the rest of the summer to come.

The main event of course was my son’s wedding in the hills of Provence – a three-day extravaganza at a country house hotel in grounds of stunning beauty with a dizzyingly high waterfall.

Pierce said I could ride when I was there if I wanted. Although it had been 10 years or more since I’d been on a horse, it was something to think about now that I was feeling so well with legs toned by the daily dog walks.

In all, I thought to myself, life hadn’t been this settled or satisfying for a long time.

Three days later, neck-braced and strapped to a stretcher my last view of Las Molieres was the blue sky above, but wracked with pain it gave me no pleasure.

In hospital the same sky, glimpsed above the buildings outside my room, taunted me with its perfection as others lifted, carried, bathed and yes, placed me on bedpans and commodes, all dignity surrendered.

Once satisfied that the dog was safe and well with Trudi in kennels, I had no option but to let life go on without me in it. The wedding came and went; friends emailed photos through the main day and evening so that I could feel a small part of it all; I moved to rehab and finally accepted my fate for now.

And so summer was lost and almost four months later I have returned to the melancholy tones of autumn.

The wicker chairs I left plumped with cushions under the shade of a willow have been put away; the table parasol now folded and tied.

The creeper is ablaze with its colourful swansong before only thin, naked stalks will skeleton stretch over the walls. The roses have long gone but the honeysuckle is robust and thick with foliage.

Surprisingly, thanks to Miriam’s tender, constant care, the pots and window boxes are still in full bloom, fresher than the day I left them.

The sun is weak and at night the heating is on and sometimes the wood-burner.

Taken home by Huck, an old friend from Glasgow, I entered my house again on elbow crutches but at least upright. A welcome banner was pinned to the length of a wooden beam.

Flowers ranged along every surface even in bedroom and bathroom organised by Huck who has the artist’s knack of tweaking a room to give it depth and warmth.

While I took all this in, standing to greet me, huge smiles on their faces, were Sandy and Livio, the young Italian couple from Trusted Housesitters.

They are as delightful and caring as they are handsome, and now as I write this, they sit alongside me, working silently on their own computers; Livio writing his sports reports, Sandy translating a book from Spanish to Italian.

We three seem a fine fit and perhaps my luck has returned but let’s not tempt the fates again.

Outside the clouds cover most of the pale, watery blue sky and the chestnut leaves tumble and whirl their way over stones and parc.

In the forest several of the trees have shed to winter outline and once again the church of Puygaillard and an outlying house or two can be seen.

With people in the house, the shutters no longer need to be closed and barred at night and I sleep contented and safe in a bed that has never felt so comfortable.

This afternoon I start my local physio, driven there by Livio and at the end of the week Cesar will return to complete the picture. Life goes on.

I am a firm believer that at times of need people are sent to us. This stint has confirmed that, and shown me both the ones who care and, sadly, the ones who don’t.

And you, dear readers, by all your cards, emails and even offers of help, come firmly into the first category. Thank you.