It was about noon when the small, white flakes began to drift to the ground. I thought it was ash; maybe a fire somewhere near our little village, or neighbors using their fireplaces.

One odd part of it was … the ash didn’t begin to accumulate on the ground. It hit the flag stones in the backyard of the home where we are staying, and left wet spots behind.

Eventually, we came to the semi-startling realization:

We were watching snow fall. Here in the south of France, a matter of miles from the Mediterranean.

The snow never stuck, probably because the temperature on the ground never got below 40 degrees Fahrenheit, but it continued for at least three hours of winter-wonderland goodness.

I struggled to recall where I might have been when I last encountered falling snow. Might have to go back to the 2006 Winter Olympics, which I covered from start to finish in gray and gloomy Turin. I seem to recall a snowstorm or two while taking the bus to the media center.

This part of France rarely sees snow. The average high, in January, in Montpellier, the closest big city, is nearly 53 degrees, and that is not conducive to frozen flakes reaching the ground.

(For that matter, Paris rarely gets snow, either, despite being about 475 miles north of here. Maybe three or four dustings per year. But this day of neige — snow — seemed to visit most of France.)

So, it was a fun to be safely inside and watch the snow come down. It never did accumulate, and after those three hours the snow turned into light rain.

We are in the Languedoc in part because of the promise of “300 days of sun” per year, which the north of France cannot come close to matching.

“No snow” pretty much would go hand in hand with the 300 days of sun thing.

We are not counting on seeing more of it. Past history suggests snow falls on me only once or twice a decade, infrequently enough that I consider it fun.