I’m in France, in Toulon, visiting my daughter and her family. Summer on the Mediterranean – the heat, the light, the laughter of grandchildren – it all grips me. I feel a rare, quiet happiness. Gratitude for life itself.

We leave the city and drive up into the mountains. The small villages lie scattered like jewels across the landscape. We choose one, walk slowly, stop at a fountain, drink some water. It’s hot. The sun is high. A faint breeze from the sea is the only relief.

We arrive at a café. I ask for more water, we fill our bottles, order a simple lunch: baguettes with Caprice des Dieux. We sit in the shade and look out over the vineyards. In the distance – the northern shore of the Mediterranean. Soon we’ll head back, we begin planning the evening’s dinner. There will be seven of us. Tonight, we’ve booked a table at the Portuguese restaurant.

I wake early after a warm night. Take a cold shower, return to bed. Everyone else is asleep. I want to be alone. I open the Israeli newspaper Haaretz. It reports from Gaza. Death tolls. How many are women, how many are children. Tables.........

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