rs. Here and there, gaps in the branches
revealed the ramparts of the little town, the minaret of a mosque, the
dome of a marabout, and, towering above, the immense Atlas mountains,
green at the base, and snow-capped, with drifts of snow here and there.

One night during my stay, a strange phenomenon, not seen for thirty
years, occurred; the ice from the freezing zone descended onto the
sleeping village, and Blidah woke up transformed, and powdered in white
snow. In the light, pure Algerian air, the snow looked like the finest
dusting of mother of pearl, and had the lustre of a white peacock's
feather. But it was the orange orchard that was the most beautiful
thing to be seen. The firm leaves kept the snow intact and upright like
sorbets on a lacquered plate, and all the fruits, powdered over with
frost, had a wonderful mellowness, a discrete radiance like silk-draped
gold. It was all vaguely evocative of a church saint's day; the red
cassocks under the lacy robes, and the gilt on a lace altar cloth....

But my most treasured memories concerning oranges come from
Barbicaglia, a large garden close to Ajaccio, where I was about to have
a siesta in the hottest time of the day. The orange trees were taller
and further apart than in Blidah and reached down to the road, behind a
ditched hedge. Immediately beyond the road, there was the deep blue
sea.... I have had such happy times in that orchard. The orange trees
in flower and in fruit, spread their delightful perfume around.
Occasionally, a ripe orange, would fall and drop to the ground near me
with a dull thud, and I just had to stretch out my hand. They were
superb fruit, with their purple, blood-colour flesh inside, and looked
exquisite, toning in with the surrounding stunning scenery. Between the
leaves, the sea was seen in dazzling blue patches, like shattered glass
sparkling in the sea mist. The ever-moving sea disturbed the atmosphere
far away and caused a rhythmic murmur that soothed, like being on a
boat. Oh, the heat, and the smell of oranges.... It was just so very
refreshing to sleep in that orchard at Barbicaglia!

Sometimes, however, at the height of the siesta, a drum-roll would wake
me up with a start. The boys of the military band came over there to
practice on the road. Through the gaps in the hedge, I could see the
brass decoration on the drums and the white aprons on their red
trousers. The poor devils came into what little shade was offered by
the hed