I read the most beautiful passage two nights ago. Proust is back in Balbec wanting to get together with Albertine. He grandmother has died and he mourns her. It is not summer, but spring, and the sea and the landscape are very different than during the high season of summer.
From The Cities of the Plain:
Describing the lush blossoms on the apple trees. ". . . these apple-trees were there in the heart of the country, like peasants, upon one of the highroads of France. Then the rays of the sun gave place suddenly to those of the rain; they streaked the whole horizon, caught the line of apple-trees in their grey net. But they continued to hold aloft their beauty, pink and blooming, in the wind that had turned icy beneath the drench rain; it was a day in spring.
I loved this breathtaking passage of trees and weather and comparing the trees to the peasants, the sudden rainstorm and the prosaic ending: it was a day in spring.
Ah, Proust! You put us all to shame.
The second photo is taken at Giverney.
The Other Odette