I am socially isolating in a cave in France

This Provençal village clusters around the base of a cliff 300 feet high and a kilometre wide surmounted by two crumbling look-out towers. The cliff is riddled with dry caves, used since time immemorial by troglodytes and fugitives. In the early 19th century a section of the rock face was walled and the caves used as a convalescent hospital for Napoleon’s wounded soldiers. An earth tremor largely destroyed the village’s medieval quartier in 1905. The stoutly built military hospice survived, as well as a few other ancient cave dwellings higher up the cliff.

Catriona and I live in one of these. House and garden sit on a high ledge accessible via a steep and rocky footpath. In normal times tourists pay €2 a head to visit the Napoleonic hospice, the old village ruins, and a sorry-looking reconstruction of a humble peasant interior of 100 years ago, consisting of a few sticks of old furniture and a collection of outmoded kitchen utensils displayed behind bars.